


A Dichotomy of Daemons

by Canis_cosmos



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst, Blood Kink, Confused Will Graham, Dark Will Graham, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 01, Have I mentioned I don't know what I'm doing with tags?, Healing, M/M, Murder Husbands, Self-Acceptance, Self-Hatred, self-sabotage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:34:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28516482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canis_cosmos/pseuds/Canis_cosmos
Summary: People keep their distance from Will Graham, and he can't fault them for that. His daemon reveals the dark shape of his soul, a soul that can too easily sink her teeth into other people's kills; he'd avoid her too, if he could.Hannibal Lecter is in perfect accord withhissoul, until he meets Will Graham. The consequences of Hannibal's soul being able to speak without his express consent become harder to mitigate.ORHannibal has plans for Will. His feelings literally get in the way, but he won't let that stop him from achieving his wider goals - not when a part of Will is already so responsive.------Will's POV, with an interlude or two from othersChs 5, 7, 10 & 11 are NSFW
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 156
Kudos: 231





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **A note on pronunciation:**  
>  Loumalous – The ‘s’ is silent. _Loo- **mah** -loo._  
> Jevgēņjia – lol, good luck with this one, main thing is to emphasise the ‘jia’ on the end, _Yev-gean- **jee-ah**._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scenes in the first few chapters are quite short, as I'm trying to whisk us through the parts of the story we already know. Scenes will become more detailed as the story deviates from canon. 
> 
> There're a few pics in this chapter, but I won't make a habit of it! 
> 
> TW: Will is really not very nice to himself. (Please be nice to yourselves ^_^)

**Chapter 1**

The dogs make it easier for Will Graham to tolerate the enduring ugliness of his soul. Their sensibilities aren’t offended by the craven curve of her spine, they don’t begrudge the hairy shoulders above her gaunt face, or the low hips that lend a skulking edge to her movements.

His daemon, Loumalous, is a Brown Hyena. When she speaks, she has a rich rasping voice; the only thing about her that Will considers pleasant. Other people don’t find her voice appealing, can’t separate it from the offensive hunchback posture and the hungry eyes; they find it menacing.

When Will goes out in the world - to work, to the shops - she stays quiet. Even so, with all her efforts at slinking beneath the attention of strangers, she’s an almost unbearable burden. In the periphery of his vision he sees people shudder, their lips curl in distain. His students studiously avoid looking at her, their daemons darting cautious glances in her direction. Children's unsettled daemons will flash into small concealable creatures that scrabble out of sight, or erupt in spikes and curl into the defensive posture of porcupines. Parents will glare at him for frightening their delicate offspring, and each time Will hates himself a little more for being so abjectly objectionable.

Sometimes, when the dogs romp with Lou, free from the judgemental gazes of the rest of humanity, he will consider the stripes on her legs, or the white ruff she sports about her neck. On rare occasions, with the artificial heat of bourbon in his belly, he thinks she may have a sweet face; sweet, but ugly. A plaintive bear-dog face, that sinks its teeth into the rotting carcasses of other people’s crimes.

Sitting on the porch in his pyjamas, the muted autumn sunlight is less forgiving than the haze of whiskey.

“Who’s eyes are you looking at me through now, Will?” Lou asks him, extracting herself from Harley’s playful buffeting and walking up the porch steps to circle behind him.

He winces, hunching his own shoulders, refusing to look at her. Of course, Lou can feel it when he starts hating himself, it reverberates up and down their link. There's no getting away from your own soul.

\- - -

Walking through the BAU, Will unhooks his gaze and lets it drift in the middle distance, acknowledging neither the hyena at his side, nor the varied but consistently unpleasant range of reactions she garners from those around her. Trained professionals all, with barely a microexpression shared between daemon and human, Loumalous sees through them anyway, and transmits it seamlessly to Will. If only she wouldn’t, because once he sees their perspectives it’s very hard to _unsee_ them. 

He reaches Jack Crawford’s office, nearly on time, and knocks with the kind of relief that is found when two anxieties swap shifts; Jack’s unpleasant reaction to Lou is to want to use her, but at least the contempt is well hidden.

The almost-relief becomes a nasty shock when he opens the door to find Jack has company. He half closes the door again, instinctively sticking his foot out to block Lou’s progress into the room. “Sorry – I thought-”

“Come right on in Will, I want you to meet Dr Hannibal Lecter. Dr Lecter, this is Will Graham.”

“Doctor…” Will almost tries to repeat the name, it sounds more like a daemon name than a human one.

The doctor seems to take this as a greeting, because he stands smoothly and offers his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr Graham.” And Will is still dithering in the doorway like an idiot, so he reluctantly opens the door all the way, meeting his daemon’s reproachful eyes, then walks forward to shake Lecter’s hand with a noncommittal hum. He keeps the contact as brief as possible.

“Pleasure’s mine.” He murmurs back, without warmth. Behind him he feels Loumalous sidling cautiously into the room, she shuts the door with a gentle swing of her heavy head. Her entrance is not met with the usual recoil of distaste, but rather an open curiosity, and Will flicks his eyes down to find the man has the soul of an African Wild Dog. She is a beautiful creature; long limbs, golden fur painted with splashes of black and white, dark satellite-dish ears swivelling to catch the noises in the offices around them, eyes the colour of dried blood.

“Nice of you to join us.” Tanith, Jack’s grey wolf daemon, drawls, looking pointedly at the black mug of half drunk coffee in his hand.

“Didn’t know it was a party.” He grumbles back, setting the offending receptacle onto Jack’s desk.

“There's no party, and nothing to celebrate.” Jack answers for his daemon, a growl beneath his words. “Eight dead girls, and a new one likely in the crosshairs.”

Tanith, the only one of the pair with any latent tact, adds, “We need all the help we can get.”

Jack and Will both grunt in acknowledgement of that, and Will sags into the available chair.

“Dr Lecter was recommended to us by Dr Bloom, he is an expert in clinical psychiatry. I’m sure you’ll both have different approaches to working up a profile, and we’ll move faster if you work together.”

“Right.” _Why fight it? Just roll with the punches_. He contributes nothing while Jack continues to fill the psychiatrist in – surely they could do this part without him?

Lecter walks to the victim board while he listens, and Will glances at his daemon, who stays where she is, still watching Lou with bright interest; surely a worrying sign. Will squirms slightly.

“Anything to add, Will?” Jack directs at him, having followed Lecter to the board.

“Not yet.” Will answers vaguely.

“Tell me then, how many confessions?” Lecter queries.

“Twelve dozen last time I checked…”

Tuning Jack out as he begins to talk again, Will flicks his gaze to the clock. Jack had assured him this would be a quick meeting, hence why Will had agreed to meet just thirty minutes before he was due to give a lecture. His class now starts in fifteen minutes, this is not the moment for he and his new _co-profiler?_ to try getting into the killer’s head. What’s Jack hoping to get out of this?

“Tasteless.” Loumalous’ voice cuts through the white noise around Will, and he jerks to look at her. He should be glad that one of them is paying attention, but he’s mainly mortified that she’s spoken at all.

“Do you have trouble with taste?” This from Lecter’s daemon, still avidly watching his hyena.

“My thoughts are often not tasty.” Lou is apparently on a roll. She’s just out of casual reach, it would be too obvious if he were to smack her from here.

“Nor mine. No effective barriers.” Lecter’s daemon appears set on encouraging her. There has to be a way to stop this.

“I make forts.” He interjects, with a tone that implies the conversation is concluded. He takes a pointed sip of his coffee.

“Associations come quickly.” Lecter chimes in, as persistent as his daemon.

“So do forts.” He grumbles back. Goddamnit, he is trying to _end_ the conversation, not get in the last word.

“Not fond of eye contact are you?”

Oh Jesus Christ. Fucking psychiatrists. Alana is the only halfway tolerable psychiatrist Will has ever met, primarily because she seems afraid to be caught alone in a room with him. He rambles off a tangential stream-of-consciousness response that deliberately veers so far from the topic they’re here to discuss that Jack will surely seize the conversation and steer it back to their killer. Will even calls his name to give him his cue, but instead, the man prevaricates in the corner, conveniently occupied by the board again. Lecter sees right though the chaff and flare to make a direct hit.

“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”

What the fuck is this? It feels like an attack. Why is single-minded Jack letting this conversation veer – _oh._ “Who’s profile are you working on?” he glares at Jack. “Who’s profile is he working on?”

The look of total innocence that crosses Jack’s face provides enough confirmation, without the psychiatrist trying to cover for him - without actually denying the accusation, he notes.

Anger at both men’s presumption fires him to his feet, and he grabs his coat and bag off the floor as he leaves, forgetting his coffee, and realising too late that he’s made a reference to the Incredible Hulk.

The blast of cold air as he leaves the Forensics building lifts some of the claustrophobic tension around his shoulders, and cools some of the flush from his cheeks. “Well, I think you handled that beautifully.” Lou snipes as they cross to the academy building, shoulders level with his mid-thigh, mouth level with his knee.

“Just- just shut up.” He manages to keep his voice down. She snickers at him, and he remembers why he hates her. She goes quiet then, and he’s pleased, but it’s a bitter kind of pleasure. It hurts him too.  
  


\- - -

The dream shatters into antlered fragments as reality intrudes in a sharp series of knocks. Loumalous is looking up at the door with instant alertness that Will can only envy. Seems unfair his soul should be so quick to rise while his mind is left thrashing about in the surf.

Sunlight blinds him and, oh look, it’s Jack’s new friend. _Christ it’s bright._ Why is Jack’s new friend here, asking to be let into his motel room?

“Where’s Crawford?”

“Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and ours today. May we come in?” He seems to be holding food. It’s probably a kind of peace offering. His daemon sits neatly behind him, the open cups of her large ears pointed towards him expectantly.

He sighs gracelessly and steps out of the way.

“This is Jevgēņjia.” Lecter introduces, as they enter Will’s temporary shelter.

That’s gonna be a tough one to remember, Will thinks. He gestures to his hyena standing awkwardly by the unmade bed. “Loumalous.”

The African wild dog marches smartly up to Lou and gives her a familiar head-swipe, before casually walking off to inspect the rest of the space. Lou’s astonished eyes go to Will and they exchange their surprise. Lecter is busy laying boxes and plates out on the table. The food smells amazing, and his stomach rumbles treacherously. Loumalous licks her lips, which strikes him as a little strange, because she doesn't eat. 

\- - -

The Hobbs girl’s blood won’t be contained, won’t be held back, it sprays through his fingers, sheets out beneath his palm, and her father is dying in the corner, trying to talk to him, trying to _reach_ him. Loumalous’ teeth are in Hobbs’ bobcat’s neck. A shiver of suspense travels through the link, then she gives up her restraint and engages her powerful jaw muscles. The bobcat daemon bursts into Dust. In the corner, the man’s head drops.

The girl is dying beneath him, her slow loris daemon clinging to her hair and crying, and he can’t-

Hannibal’s hand comes to replace his own with conviction. Immediately, Will can tell he knows what he’s doing. Calm emanates from him, defusing the mounting panic building in his chest and throat, the radiated confidence and surety a sudden balm that affects him physically. He falls back to give them space, and sees the sensation is less ephemeral and has a specific origin. Jevgēņjia’s flank is flush against Loumalous’ body. The African wild dog’s head rests across Lou’s low hanging neck, jaw tucked behind her ears.

His hyena stares straight back at him, and the sight of her eyes drives a spear through him; Lou is shaking, dazzlingly vulnerable, dark eyes shining with a multitude of emotions, many of which Will can’t begin to parse right now. Shock and guilt sit high on the list, grief, horror, yes, but also... triumph. He had felt a moment of exultation there, as her jaws had crushed the bobcat daemon’s vertebrae. Is it the taking of a life that has her trembling, or does she look guilty because she enjoyed it?

Staring at each other this way could trigger a negative feedback loop that might cycle and build viciously. Jevgēņjia nudges in closer against Lou, who has to shift her weight to keep upright and breaks the eye contact before his thoughts can spiral. It’s a relief.

When the ambulance comes, Hannibal never leaves the girl’s side. The African hunting dog stays pressed supportively against his daemon until Hannibal climbs into the ambulance, then, with a whisper in Loumalous ear, she runs to follow him before the doors close.

Will stands by his car. The whole world is sprayed with red, big blotches on everyone’s faces, on the ground, in the sky. Loumalous is shaking without the other daemon’s comforting presence. She looks at Will; Will looks back at her, then quickly looks away.

He hears her heave a heavy sigh, and clenches her teeth to stop himself from snapping at her. She is so goddamn pathetic. 

\- - -

The nurse and his skink daemon point Will to Abigail’s hospital room, and he slopes in the designated direction. Finding Hannibal asleep by her bed surprises him, but his usual wariness grants him a reprieve, and he quietly ushers Loumalous inside.

Rapidly shifting his attention to the unfortunate girl, Will’s heart quails at the sight of her pallor. Her daemon, still in its loris form, has been wrapped in a sling for safe transportation, and placed in the bed with her; it, too, sleeps like the dead.

Lou ambles closer to Jevgēņjia who opens an eye and inches forward in greeting before setting right back into dozing. Loumalous shifts her weight on her feet uncertainly, then lies down midway between Will's chair and the other daemon. Will notes this with a raised eyebrow, but doesn't have the energy to fight her on it, and wouldn't want to wake Hannibal with their bickering.

As a rule, Will doesn’t sleep very well, and yet, despite the clinical smell of the hospital and the harsh light, there is something soporific about this place. The room is warm, filled with the gentle breathing of two other people and the reassuringly steady _bips_ of Abigial’s heart-monitor. His eyes close, and he doesn’t expect more than a brief reprieve for his eyes.

Will wakes to find Hannibal watching Abigail thoughtfully while Lou and Jevgēņjia converse in hushed tones. He rubs at his bleary eyes, and replaces his glasses in time to see the doctor smiling fondly at him. Fondness? That seems… incongruous and unlikely. Probably just some practiced psychiatry mask, and yet, he’s seen some of this man’s masks; this one looks genuine.

He offers back a smile of his own, though he’s not sure that his lips manage more than a slight tic. “You saved her life,” he acknowledges, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“So did you.” Hannibal counters mildly.

They hold eye contact, sharing this truth; with the broken girl lying comatose between them, it doesn’t feel like a victory.

\- - - 

Alana approaches through a stream of departing students, her aardwolf, Angus, trotting gamely at her heels. His pointy ears twitch in greeting at curious daemons passing him by.

Her warning of an ambush serves little in the way of advanced notice, but provides him with the satisfaction of Jack’s irritation as he comes to stand behind her. “Traitor.” Tanith mutters to Angus, and Angus gives a semi-apologetic wag of his bushy tail.

First Will must endure Jack blowing smoke up his ass, and then comes the real kicker. Back in the field, psych eval… _oh hell no._

And then Hannibal’s name is mentioned, and Will’s resistance derails. Loumalous has brought up the subject of Hannibal and ‘Jia’ numerous times since the hospital. The pair are on her mind almost as often as Garret Jacob Hobbs.

He maintains his objections for appearances sake, and then finds himself anticipating the meeting for the next two days. In that time he doesn’t see Hannibal at the hospital, but he sees evidence of his visits; small posies of fresh flowers that are most certainly not shop bought. Plucked from the man’s own garden, Will would put money on it.

“You still won’t tell me what you two were talking about?” He asks, as Lou sniffs around for trace evidence of Hannibal and Jevgēņjia.

“I don’t see why I should.” She responds tartly. “It was private.”

“But…” But what? _We’re the same person_? She knows he’s loathe to admit it. Why should he care anyway? Still, it plays on his nerves. “Were you talking about me?”

She scoffs, turning her black bug eyes on him. “Not everything is _about_ you, asshole. She’s nice to me. If I tell you what we talk about, you’ll only ruin it.”

“What? No I won’t.”

“Yeah you will. You’ll over-think it, and reach some horrible conclusion about it all, and frankly, I don’t want to hear it.” She stares him down, and he drops his eyes away, guilt crawling up his spine.

There was a time, when he was a kid, that he and Lou were best friends. She would jump from creature to creature, soaring in the air as a gull, jumping the waves as a porpoise, cuddled around his neck as a fluffy tabby cat.

Now she reflects the monster inside him, bowed under the weight of all the perspectives he carries.

Too bad. There's no changing what she is. No changing what he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I do actually like brown hyenas!
> 
> I keep giving myself stories with grammar handicaps... verb tenses in APAK, past and present narration for different characters in the Hannibat story, and now personal pronouns when people are simultaneously one entity and two entities. (⊙_◎)
> 
> A couple more images for you, just to give you a window into the world, but I'll quit after these ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more speedy scenes, but getting to the longer scenes too now...
> 
> I hope you enjoy ^_^

** Chapter 2 **

Hannibal’s suits get more extravagant each time they meet. Will reaches for the proffered paper. “Did you just rubber stamp me?” The idea is exciting and troubling, like having a teacher help you cheat a test. Will waits for the other shoe to drop.

“Jack may lay his weary head to rest. Jevgēņjia and I were in the field with you, your behaviour was not only competent, but laudable.”

“Not you too.” He groans, sinking back into a chair. Bad enough that the trainees applauded, that Jack delivered one of his rare backhanded complements (briefly summarised as: _you might get a commendation, but I’d like to check you’re not a psycho_ ) _._

Hannibal unbuttons his jacket and sits across from him. “You’re uncomfortable with praise, more comfortable with condemnation. You’ve faced a lot of discrimination, with your daemon, haven’t you, Will?”

Will snorts. “Discrimination implies bias based on misconception. It’s not discrimination if they’re right.”

“What do you believe they’re right about?”

Well he can't very well be honest about that. “I make people uncomfortable, I have an ugly soul.” He shrugs. Loumalous doesn’t react. She knows she’s ugly.

The doctor purses his lips at the statement. “If you make people uncomfortable, surely that starts with them. And I don’t think Loumalous is ugly. Personally, I find her to be striking, insightful, courteous and demure.”

Loumalous looks up at that. “No one’s ever called me demure before.”

“Don’t encourage him Lou.”

She lowers her head back to the floor. Jevgēņjia stands up and comes to lie next to her, a hair’s breadth from physical contact. Exasperation stirs Will’s insides with a hot spoon. “Why does she keep doing that?”

“Hmm?” Hannibal requests clarification, looking up from the pair of daemons, “Do what?”

“You know…” he waves a hand at Lou. “Getting cosy over there.”

The African wild dog snaps her eyes to his. “It’s for Louma’s benefit, if you’ve ever considered such a thing.”

Will blinks uncertainly at her, then at his daemon. “…‘Louma’ ?”

Loumalous’ black eyes slide away from his miserably, staring off under Hannibal’s desk, and Jia snorts and also turns from Will, resting her head on the back of Lou’s long neck and closing her eyes.

The contact sooths Will, even as the daemon admonitions him. For his part, Hannibal seems a little amused, a little baffled, and clears his throat to take the reins of the conversation again.

“You fail to mention how you are a prized asset to the FBI, and help to save lives.”

“Asset.” Will repeats, clicking his tongue. _Yeah, that fits_. “Everything needs a purpose. A toilet brush can function admirably in certain situations. Doesn’t mean you want to brush your teeth with it. Hyenas digest the rotting carcasses of other creatures’ kills and curb the spread of parasites in an ecosystem. Doesn’t mean they’re welcome at the watering hole.”

“A vital component, snubbed by the ungrateful masses with their conventional aesthetics.”

“Conventional aesthetics.” He turns to Lou. “How about that Lou? He’s implying you have _unconventional_ aesthetics.” Addressing Hannibal again, “That’s the nicest way anyone’s ever called her ugly, I think.”

“You deliberately misconstrue my position. By conventional, I mean limited: shaped for them by other people, and never challenged or thought about independently.”

Will gets to his feet, itching to flee the office, takes the next best option, climbing to the book-lined gallery above. He browses the shelves, and Hannibal allows him his space. Eventually, when it becomes clear Will is not planning to initiate further conversation, Hannibal begins again.

“You are here because Jack wants you out in the field, and for you to agree to this meeting suggests your wishes are aligned in this matter. The purpose of being in the field is to identify the perpetrators of violent crimes and save innocent lives. Here you are, freshly returned from having achieved both those conditions, and yet you seem no happier for it.”

“What’s happiness got to do with it?” Will snorts. “And whether we saved Abigail is inconclusive. She’s still comatose.” He runs a hand along the polished railings of the mezzanine. “Besides, _Jack_ thinks she might not be so innocent after all.” The whole sentence is bitter on his tongue, Jack’s name most of all.

“He believes she was complicit. How does that make you feel?” 

Fucking psychiatrists, he sneers. “How does that make _you_ feel?”

“I find it vulgar.”

“Me too.”

“And entirely possible.”

“That’s not what happened.” Even as he says it he knows he has nothing to back this up with, doesn’t care.

He and Lou _saw_ the innocence in her eyes when her father’s blade was sliding across her throat. He _feels_ the innocence radiate from her when he holds her close in his dreams, blade against the slim column of her neck, and whispers in her ear. He never knows what he’s saying, but her struggles only intensify, and he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, because he loves her and he never wanted her to suffer like this, but they’ve run out of time…

“Jack will ask her when she wakes up or he'll have one of us ask her.”

_When_ she wakes up. It’s nice Hannibal is so confident. Is that because he’s a doctor, or is he just an optimistic kind of guy? The idea of being sent in to question her makes him uncomfortable, he doesn’t want to approach her in that cold clinical way. How then? A white knight? A father figure? He killed her father.

The king is dead, long live the king.

That’s not how it works.

\- - -

Two days later he’s back In Hannibal’s office, because he saw Hobbs at a crime scene, actually saw him, and Lou did too, which means it was a full on crazy-person hallucination. And he has to tell someone, because he can’t be walking around with a loaded gun seeing imaginary serial killers.

He slides Hannibal’s ratification across the desk towards him. “This may have been premature.”

“Have you told Jack?”

“No.” Will had come here instead. Back to the teacher who helped him cheat.

“It's stress. Not worth reporting.” Jevgēņjia dismisses.

Hannibal nods sagely and qualifies her statement. “The mechanism that distinguishes conscious perceptions from internal perceptions misfired. You displaced the victim of another killer's crime with what could arguably be considered your victim.”

“I don’t see Hobbs as my victim.”

“How do you see him?”

Will hesitates, and Loumalous answers for him. “Dead.” Seems a good enough answer, he allows it to pass unchallenged. Which may have been a mistake, because it affords Hannibal the opportunity to include her in the conversation.

“Is it harder imagining the thrill somebody else feels killing now that you've done it yourself?”

Suddenly uncomfortable, Lou hangs her head and breaks eye contact. She looks so goddamn shifty. “Yes.” Will answers, nodding, because with the simple admission he doesn’t reveal _why_ it’s harder now: his own remembered thrill getting in the way.

Hannibal smiles, something almost congratulatory in the expression. Will looks away.

The smile stays behind his eyes as he drives home, lingers in his periphery as he feeds his dogs. He’s always liked dogs, but Jevgēņjia is something special. He doesn’t know anything much about African wild dogs, except they’re not technically dogs.

With his pack fed and watered, Will pours a glass of bourbon and sits at his laptop. Instead of researching mushrooms or looking at crime scene photos, he finds himself looking up the endangered species.

Not only are they not technically dogs, they’re not even in the _canis_ genera with wolves, foxes and jackals. _Lycaon pictus_ , meaning ‘painted wolf’, also known as the painted dog, or the Cape hunting dog… ‘African Wild dogs despatch their prey by tearing it apart, as opposed to the suffocation strategy used by big cats. This has earned them something of a bad reputation, but kills are usually quick and efficient…’

_Huh_. Somewhat unexpected, but then, the settling of a daemon doesn’t mean the soul reflects every characteristic of the animal.

‘…Meals are consumed as fast as possible to avoid them being stolen by hyenas…’ _Ouch_. Will stops reading.

\- - -

Weeks pass, the darkness stealing through his ears, permeating his sinuses. Crime scenes come and go; the criminals don’t. They collect and linger in his head until he feels there’s no room for him in there anymore. Lou gets increasingly restless, mutters insights that creep out the lab techs, and Will’s nightmares start taking his unconscious body by the hand and leading him out of bed.

When Abigail woke from her coma, they found her daemon, Martunis, has settled in its slow loris form, wide watchful eyes ceaselessly scanning the surroundings. It’s not an animal that will intimidate others. Will worries it may be hard for the girl to be taken seriously by the wider world, but Jack pointedly reminds him that slow lorises are the only primate with venom. Instead of being suspicious, as Jack is, he finds the information comforting. Abigail won’t be as defenceless as people will believe her to be.

The hateful tabloid journalist with the albino rat daemon has already sunk her claws into the poor girl, brazenly taking the opportunity to vilify him before he had a chance to properly meet her. Freddy has been a thorn in his side since the Stammets case, and he fears that any day now there’ll be a picture of him on TattleCrime website, walking down the highway in his boxers: _Disturbed Profiler Prowls at Night!_ Or something equally trashy.

Standing below the body of their latest murderer, strung to the beams of barn in an impressive display of self-mutilation, he will admit to feeling pretty disturbed. Loumalous has approached even closer to the body, head craned up. If she gets any closer, the dripping blood will fall into her parted jaws.

“This will be the last one.”

“It’s Budish?”

“He made himself into an angel.” Will finds himself mimicking Lou and drifting closer, face tilted up. Jack shouts something to the police offers outside the barn, but Will isn’t listening, he’s experiencing the relief Budish felt as he took control of his own life.

Lou speaks from his side. “It wasn’t God, wasn’t man, it was his choice to die.”

The grey wolf has approached too. “His choice?”

“As much as he could make it.” Will responds. He couldn’t choose to live, but he could choose to die, to transcend. A flare of light shines in the encroaching darkness of Eliot Budish’s thoughts. Death isn’t the only escape for him.

Jack approaches the knot of beings below the bloody angel. “You feeling a shortage of choices, Will?”

“I don’t know how much longer I can be all that useful to you, Jack.” Will's head spins; he said it, he actually said it.

“Really? You caught three. The last three we had, you caught.”

 _Nice try Jack, but I see what you’re doing_. “I didn’t catch this one. Elliot Budish surrendered.” 

Jack turns around in frustration. “I’m used to not getting information from my wife. I don’t need to not get information from you, too.”

Will winces, he’d seen the shell-shocked look on the man’s face when Budish’s wife had spoken of terminal illness. Jack was going through something at the moment; to bring his wife into a discussion like this; Will can only assume Bella is sick. The man deserves an explanation at least, but what confession would satisfy Jack without damning himself? 

“It’s getting harder and harder to make myself look.”

“You go back to your classroom and there’s more killing that you could have prevented, it will sour that classroom forever.”

“Just because I _can_ get into the minds of killers, doesn’t mean I _should_ \- whatever you may think of my daemon, _I_ can't keep wallowing around in the aftermath of these kills. This is _bad_ for us.”

Jack looks at him as though bringing Loumalous into this is a low blow, and stalks to the door. “If you want to quit, quit.”

Following Jack out of the barn, Tanith looks over her shoulder and meets his eyes. Her calm golden gaze holds her conviction that Will won’t abandon his post. Her faith in him simultaneously aggravates and soothes. As destabilising as this is, it is nice to feel trusted, needed.

\- - -

Everywhere they go they hear the sound of trapped or injured animals. Whenever it starts up, all the hairs on Lou’s shoulders stands up straight, even in public. The disapproval of strangers intensifies.

“You need to tell Hannibal.” Lou tells him one evening as he’s dismantling his fireplace – because, ok he might be crazy, but wouldn’t it be worse if there really were a racoon or something trapped and suffering in there?

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Will grits at her, without looking away from the bricks he’s prying out of the wall. “The first person we meet who doesn’t immediately spurn you on sight, and you completely throw yourself at them.”

This kind of comment would usually cow Loumalous for a couple of hours, but spending time with Hannibal and Jevgēņjia has given her some ideas above her station.

“Angus and Alana don’t spurn me.”

“Angus is nice to everyone, _and_ , less inclined to be a dick about what you are, because he’s _technically_ a kind of hyena too.”

“Barely.” Lou puffs. “Distant cousins. Angus may as well be a cute little stripy fox. And aardwolves don’t eat carrion, they eat termites and beetles, delicately and sustainably.”

The animal in the chimney, whether it exists or not, has gone quiet. His dogs, lined up against the far wall and looking at him with concern, suddenly turn to the window, ears pricking, and run to the door with exuberant tails.

Will looks at the mess around him and closes his eyes.

He ends up doing exactly what he accused Lou of, and throws himself at the first person who’s nice to him, because he’s known Alana longer than Hannibal, and Alana is a woman, and very kissable, and also here.

When that doesn’t work, he follows up on Loumalous’ original idea, and throws himself at Hannibal’s door instead.

“I kissed Alana Bloom,” he blurts, by way of greeting.

The man was apparently entertaining only moments before, his guest called away by some emergency, and _thank god_ for that. Will cringes at how unbearably awkward it would have been to interrupt their dinner with his schoolyard confession. Instead, Hannibal is the consummate gentleman, assuring him of his welcome, and offering him dessert. He’s forgotten to eat supper, but he’s not going to tell his host that, no doubt the man would insist on cooking a second time.

“Tell me, what was Alana’s reaction?” Hannibal asks, whipping cream near soundlessly into puffy foam.

“Well, she kissed me back. And then she said we wouldn’t be good for each other.”

Hannibal looks at Loumalous, “And what was Angus’ response?” The hyena’s head hangs low, accentuating her stoop. She looks beleaguered and strangely alone on the kitchen floor. Maybe he’s not as welcome as he initially thought; certainly the African wild dog is keeping her distance for once.

Lou shifts uncomfortably on her haunches. “He was polite,” she murmurs.

Great, hardly a ringing endorsement.

Reaffixing his gaze on Will, Hannibal asked with impenetrable courtesy, “I’m wondering why you kissed her and felt compelled to drive an hour in the snow to tell me about it.”

_Ouch._ “It was Lou’s idea.” He replies lamely, earning him a reproachful glare. “What? It was.”

“Yes, only I suggested it _before_ you kissed Alana.”

“Oh?” A slight shift in the angle of Hannibal’s shoulders, and Jevgēņjia finally steps forward to snuffle at Lou’s face.

He feels Loumalous’ relief, and then some warmth spreads through their connection, because she realises before he does that Hannibal had been jealous. Jealous of his interest in Alana? That’s absurd, he wants to tell her, but she’s rarely wrong about these things.

Hannibal finishes augmenting their exotic bread puddings and picks up both plates. “Come, I have an excellent 10 year old Glenmorangie that will pair very nicely with this.”

“Uh, I shouldn’t drink, still gotta drive home.”

“Nonsense. It’s late, and the snow is still falling thickly. I have guest rooms upstairs, and you’ve had an emotional evening. Take the opportunity to relax.”

Well maybe just one glass, to go with dessert. He follows Hannibal through to the ‘drawing room’ and perches on the edge of an armchair, unwilling to be taken in by its comfortable embrace. Though the room is far from cold, his host lights the kindling that is waiting around two thicker logs in the hearth. Will thinks of his own ruined fireplace, and it crosses his mind again just how fucking mental he must have appeared to Alana.

“I’m going to miss our fireplace.” Lou mutters beside him, catching the gist of his thoughts.

“I’ll fix it.” Will returns defensively.

“What happened to your fireplace?” Jia asks, coming to sit next to Lou.

“He made a hole in it.”

 _Judas_. “I’ll _fix_ it.” He insists.

Oh but Lou isn’t finished, “We thought we heard an animal trapped in there.”

Will reaches down and pinches her, she winces and goes quiet. Jevgēņjia’s eyes narrow on him, her big disc ears twitching.

Walking to a stunning wooden drinks cabinet, one of the few things in the room he would happily have in his own home, Hannibal asks the inevitable, “You _thought_ you heard an animal?”

“Didn’t find anything inside.” Will tries to keep his voice neutral. Why did he listen to Lou and come here? Why does he ever listen to Lou? Well it’s all going to come out sooner or later, thanks to her, so he may as well just give in gracefully… if that ship hasn’t already sailed. “Alana showed up. She looked at us, maybe her face changed, I don’t know. She knew.”

“What did she know, Will?”

“There wasn’t an animal in the chimney. It was only in our head.”

“Visual and now auditory hallucinations.” Jia observes, casting her eyes beyond Will’s chair, to where Hannibal pours drinks.

“Yeah, sleep walking, headaches, hearing things.” Will weighs his words, they’re uncomfortably heavy, he says them anyway. “I feel… unstable.”

Hannibal returns with two tumblers of scotch, places one on the small table at the side of Will’s chair, and the other on his own side table before picking up the plate with its artfully presented pudding. He meets Will’s eyes.

“You thought Alana could help you attain equilibrium?”

“I don’t know what I thought.” Will sighs out in defeat. He picks up his own pudding and begins to eat, quickly losing himself in the sensory experience as his taste buds sing.

“Try it with the Glenmorangie.” Hannibal prompts, and Will doesn’t need to be told twice. He drifts on a rare moment of contentment. Fire warm and crackling amiably to one side, another soul close to his own, a confidant, good food and good whiskey. For a moment it’s enough, with the snow walling off the world outside, and he wishes that this really were all that mattered in the world.

Jia waits until he finishes the pudding and places the tray back onto the side table, then interrupts the pleasant lull he has fallen into. “I think you should see a doctor, Will.”

Both humans tense, and Lou pulls back from where Jevgēņjia was resting against her. Will can’t see her expression, but he can feel her hurt.

“What do you mean?” He asks, speaking over Hannibal as he says her name in quiet admonition. 

“I mean,” she clarifies, ignoring Hannibal, “your symptoms could also be the result of a physical ailment, and, in addition to informal conversations with a psychiatric consultant, perhaps you should see a neurologist.”

Will looks at Hannibal, whose features have tightened minutely. “You disagree?”

The man hesitates, drawing his eyes from Jia with flat lips. “Her worries are not entirely unfounded, though such things are difficult to diagnose, and most medical professionals would prefer to rule out psychological issues before running a slew of tests, some of which are rather invasive. To ascertain if there’s an infection in the brain, for instance, one must collect cerebrospinal fluid from the spine.”

“But we have contacts.” Jia counters, archly. “Who owe us favours. They could run some preliminary tests, a CT scan, an MRI.”

“Yes, I suppose we do.”

“Wait, no, you don’t need to do that.” Will sinks back into the armchair, attempting to push himself away from the conversation.

The husky voice of his hyena interrupts before Hannibal or Jia can respond. “We’re weird enough you worry something’s wrong with our _brain_?”

Jia looks at Loumalous in surprise, only just noticing that she’s been slowly withdrawing. The painted dog stands, fire catching in her eyes, drawing forth the red in her gaze.

“ _He_ doesn’t think there’s sufficient reason to worry, I don’t see any valid reason for risking the alternative.”

An alien abstract feeling stirs in a corner of his soul that has long been overlooked, and Loumalous steps forward and rubs her face against Jia’s neck. “Thank you,” she says, and Jia shudders against her, maroon eyes closing as she accepts Lou’s first initiated contact. She rubs her own face into the hyena’s ruff. The intimacy goes beyond the comfort and reassurance they’ve shared before.

Gripping himself tightly, Will darts his eyes to Hannibal and away again, catching a glimpse of a thoughtful expression that reveals little, and forbids less.

Will manages to unclench his throat enough to blurt, “I should go,” standing up to make his point.

Mouth widening in thinly veiled amusement, Hannibal stands too and walks to the window, drawing back the thick curtains. Through the dark panes, where the street lamps cast their cones of light, Will sees the snow is falling in thicker clumps than when he arrived.

“I don’t see that you should.”

“S’fine. I drove here in it. Can drive back in it too.”

“I don’t want to go.” His soul speaks up behind him.

The pressure boils over and he turns on her, “Too fucking bad, Lou!”

He stalks out the door and into the cool dark corridor beyond, making it as far as the front door before he realises she isn’t following him. The stretch of distance between them is uncomfortable, but not intolerably so. She’s probably making apologies for his rude behaviour; fine, he knows he’s being rude.

He yanks on his coat, stomps his feet into his shoes and does them up hurriedly. Waits a beat. “Lou!” He calls, when there’s still no sign of her.

Embarrassment enflames his cheeks as the seconds lengthen into minutes. He’s standing on his own like a jackass, in the cold dark hall, having just been a total dick, and his soul won’t even come to heel. Glaring at the front door, he considers throwing it open and testing the limits of their bond.

This rebellious streak is new in her, it is likely she would break first and come weeping to him, but it would be terrible for both of them. Not to mention how it would appear to Hannibal and Jia, Lou screaming and writhing and panting on the ground while he crawled his way through the snow to his car…

A rivulet of transient notes floats from the direction of the drawing room, lulling and inviting. His shoulders sag. He isn’t standing on his own _like_ a jackass. He _is_ a jackass.

The stream of music broadens out, skilled fingers running up and down scales with flawless timing and graceful confidence. Everything that man does is with graceful confidence, how sickeningly enviable. This, for example: sitting down to play a pellucid piece of music as a way of inviting him to return. No words required, no awkward gestures, just notes that call him back to the light, and the warmth, and the company.

He peels off his coat and toes off his shoes, grips the bridge of his nose in shame, then straightens up and walks back to the drawing room. He opens the door, and Hannibal continues to play without turning, but Will can’t fail to notice a note of triumph seeping into the chords.

There’s another log on the fire. Lou and Jia are curled up together in its flickering light, the African wild dog lying half across the hyena and grooming herself regally. Will could almost believe Lou was altogether unaffected by his outburst, if he couldn’t feel her disquiet, if he couldn’t see her shaking. His eyes shift to the glass he’d left on the side-table, topped up in his absence.

Returning to his chair, he chases his swallowed pride with a mouthful of the scotch. It does a fair job of burning away the lingering bitterness, but the shame is harder to dislodge.

Will feels Loumalous relax, and her emotions ebb until all that remains is the comfort of Jia’s presence. He closes his eyes, and Hannibal transitions into another song. The reassurance of the hunting dog swells around him, as she moves from grooming herself to grooming Lou.

No one has groomed his daemon since she settled into her final shape. Will melts into the cushions, limbs lax and heart racing, overwhelmed. The music, and waves of affection, flow around him, buoying him in warm currents, but his heart won’t slow, he feels vulnerability oozing into his lungs and eyes.

Hannibal finishes the piece and rises into the silence of the crackling fire. His smile to Will is reassuring, with a shadow of fond indulgence, as he walks to stand behind his empty chair, resting his hands on the top. His eyes glow, the planes of his face thrown into sharp contrast by the dancing flames, and Will can no more look away from his stare than find the strength to move.

Jia begins to lick broad strokes across Loumalous’ face, the hyena loosing a happy rumble of surrender. Will is flushed, he can feel it in his cheeks, Hannibal is still gazing at him, rapt, and the liquid feeling in his limbs begins to fizz with the building charge.

Only when Hannibal sits down in the chair does Will realise he had wanted him to move closer, to stroke his clever fingers through his hair, had wanted to be as caressed as Lou.

“I can see you are rather stunned by all this.” Hannibal says finally. “I confess, it is rather unanticipated for me too.”

Too raw to have this conversation, Will maintains his defensive stance. “You seem better equipped to deal with your ‘surprise’. Made more overtures from the start.”

Amusement reasserts itself across the fire-lit features. “Been friendly? Yes, I believe it does come more easily to Jevgēņjia, but then, I am not so strict with my daemon.”

Conveniently ignoring the majority of his response, Will asks, “Friendly?” Eyes flicking to where Lou has lifted her jaw so Jia can thoroughly wash under her chin. 

“This evening, I will admit, our counterparts have formed a deeper bond. You are unaccustomed to the affection, I myself am rarely moved to offer it.”

Will’s palms are clammy, he wipes one of them on his trousers and picks up his whiskey again. “You really don’t mind that she’s a hyena, do you?”

“I do not base my opinions on the notions of others. I have met only a few hyena daemons in my travels, and none of them were brown hyenas. It is a privilege to become acquainted with one, and so far I have found nothing unbecoming. Quite the opposite in fact. Both of our daemons are endangered, and while painted dogs are not scorned here, they have been demonised in their own way in other lands. It is a rare person that has an endangered animal as a daemon, I suspect that you and I have more in common than is immediately apparent.”

“Your spirit animal and mine aren’t exactly friends in the wild.”

“But we are not in the wild, Will. And the pressures that would divide our daemon’s physical equivalents do not apply here. I would happily share my meals with you.”

There are no words in Will to respond to this. He gropes in the vacuum of his mind, because – as awkward as it is to hear – such a declaration deserves a response. It has been a long time since someone truly offered an overture of friendship, or whatever this is, and there are only the calcified fossils of phrases that might be suitable, ones he cannot prize from the walls of his skull.

Loumalous answers for him, not with words, but by lifting her face to Jia’s cheek and washing her face in return. Satisfaction radiates from Hannibal and his daemon both. Hannibal settles back into his chair with a contented hum, closing his eyes. Will drinks more whiskey.

The silence that builds between them is peaceful and warm. The Glenmorangie in his belly makes its way into his veins, and Will allows himself to cling to the surface of this surreal bubble in time; unwilling to burst it, unable to enter it entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easy there Will, it's just affection. No one's trying to kill you. Not right this minute, anyhow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back! This chapter's a bit longer again, I hope you enjoy :)

**Chapter 3**

Hannibal’s music sweeps through his dreams, a wind that blows through the oneiric landscapes, swaying trees and shivering the leaves atop the forest canopy. The notes are joined by the low mournful strains of a deep base rising from below, from the darkness of the forest floor. The low strings compliment the higher music for a moment, adding a depth that speaks to the duality of existence, baleful and beautiful. The dirge strengthens, grips the lighter notes and pulls them down, corrupting their purity with ominous promise.

Will, a presence now in the dream, finds himself dragged from the current of Hannibal’s music by the heavier chords, pulled down through scratching branches, landing heavily on the ground. The vibrations of the dark melody shudder through the soil, loosening it in waves, so that he sinks deeper with each pulse of the loam. He has become the discordant note, fouling up the harmonics around him. It’s frustrating, painful; he’s the only thing off-key in the whole forest.

A flash between the trees, and a brown hyena is loping up to him, light footed on the waves of sound that permeate the forest floor. The creature looks likes Lou; it doesn’t act like Lou, doesn’t _feel_ like Lou. He feels no connection to it whatsoever.

Buried up to his chest, one arm trapped beneath the constricting earth, he tries to fend the beast off with his free arm, and it skitters away with a shrill yip. But it knows he’s stuck, and loops back around, approaching from his trapped side, sniffing at the back of his head with hot breath that smells of spoiling meat.

He growls and grunts and heaves, but the more he struggles, the tighter the grip of the palpitating soil around him. The hyena’s breath snakes loudly across his ear before hesitating above his jugular. “Nnn,” Will strains away, barely creating any distance, and the hyena darts in, tears his throat out.

His head falls back, dangling and rocking slightly as blood gouts from the ragged arteries. The music presses tighter against him, the earth swallowing him a little deeper, but it’s a possessive and approving now, as his atoms give up there resistant frequency, matching their rhythm and resonance to the dark world around him. Yes, he’ll make a fine addition to the orchestra.

A cold line is pressed into the limp palm of his exposed arm. His eyes slide to the side and he sees the hyena has placed a bow in his hand with reverent jaws. His fingers close on the bow, arm moving of its own accord as it swings up to position itself at his exposed vocal chords. Eyes falling shut, his elbow moves, and he feels the first stirrings of ecstasy as the cavity of his chest fills with sonorous eldritch music.

In Hannibal’s guest bedroom, Will lifts his head from the mattress and Loumalous raises her head to meet his eyes. Her face is carefully blank.

Wetting his dry lips, wondering if he wants the answer to his question, “Were you me in that dream, or were you the hyena?”

She sighs and closes her eyes, lowering her head back onto her forepaws. “Both, Will. I’m always both.”

\- - -

Breakfast has never been a permanent or integral part of Will’s routine, and he sidles into the kitchen with some apprehension. Discomfort slowly evaporates as he is welcomed to a spread of hams, cheeses and pastries. The simple breakfast still manages to stir a simulacrum of awe, as he watches Hannibal eat a croissant without a single stray flake. His own plate quickly became a mess of spilled pastry shards.

The coffee loosens his tongue with hints of walnut and molasses, and Will voluntarily offers the contents of his dreams to Hannibal.

He listens with direct eye contact and a slight cant to his head. “You are still hearing this killer’s serenade behind your eyes.”

“And yours, apparently.”

Hannibal quirks his lips in the suggestion of a smile. “I’d happily submerge you in music, if I thought it would dislodge the other. Alas, I doubt it’s such a simple matter.”

A blush threatens, and four points of pain in his palm inform Will that his fist is clenched unnecessarily tight. “Until I catch him, yeah.”

Lou and Jevgēņjia are lying in a thick sunbeam that shines through the French windows, thick snow in the garden beyond. Hannibal regards them for a moment, taking a sip of coffee, then turns to Will again. “I hesitate telling you this, as it borders on a violation of doctor - patient confidentiality. I’ve never been in this position before.”

The painted dog lifts her head to regard her human warily, “Hannibal?”

He ignores her. “A patient told me yesterday he suspects a friend of his may be involved with the murder at the symphony.”

“ _Hannibal_.” Genuine disapproval in Jia’s voice, a hint of anger.

Will follows Hannibal’s cue and ignores the daemon. “What did he say about his friend?”

“Hannibal, _don’t_.” Jia snaps, coming to her feet.

“He owns a music store in Baltimore, specialising in string instruments. Perhaps you should interview him.”

Jevgēņjia spits out a furious sound and sits back on her haunches, snapping her teeth shut on the empty air.

“Thank you.” Will offers gently, as Hannibal lowers his eyes. “I can see that was difficult for you, but it might save lives.”

Another snort from the direction of Hannibal’s daemon, who lies down again and buries her face in Lou’s ruff. Loumalous looks pleased, but her eyes slide to Will’s uncertainly. He offers her a reassuring smile, and her eyes shine with confusion. He feels a pulse of hope through their bond, and it cleaves his heart.

It takes a while to scrape the ice off his car windshield, even with Hannibal’s fancy-pants scraper, and his fingers are half numb in their gloves by the time he finishes. The heater in his Volvo smells of burnt dust, and takes a long time to thaw the chill from the air.

Loumalous folds in on herself on the front seat, curled tightly enough that it likely takes effort to hold such a position. She’s almost too big to be accommodated, it doesn’t look very comfortable; she’s already pining for Jevgēņjia, he can feel it. He supposes it’s the hyena equivalent of holding herself.

“Hey.” He says, rubbing his thumbs on the steering wheel, waiting for the lights. “We can… we can go see them again soon. If you want.” Of course she wants, they both do. Still, she lifts her head and blinks at him with liquid black eyes.

She stays silent for a moment, and all he can read from their bond is careful consideration. “That would be nice.” She eventually returns, neutrally.

He takes a slightly deeper breath, “And, I’m sorry about last night.”

“You are?” She sounds doubtful, and he senses caution. It’s frustrating, but perhaps not altogether unwarranted.

“Yes. I… it was overwhelming. And I didn’t handle it very well.”

The caution is replaced with wary relief. “You’re not mad at me?”

“I was.” He admits. “And I’d rather you didn’t make a habit of disagreeing with me in public. But,” the words are difficult to say; they weigh heavier than the air they must ride out on. “I’m glad we stayed.” 

Warmth flows through their connection, and he can’t remember the last time she felt grateful, or that he gave her cause to be. He bites his lip. He so rarely feels she deserves anything, but maybe he could be a little nicer to her. To himself.

She looks down at the foot well, a tremor of anxiety shivering out of her. She spends a moment debating whether or not to share, then, “I’m not sure we’re good for them.”

Frowning at the road, grey slush with white boarders, he digests this. “What makes you think that?”

“It feels like our dissonance affects them, Hannibal and Jia were of one mind when we met them. Now they seem at odds. It’s like…” She trails off.

Stepping over the comment on ‘dissonance’, which hurts a little, he softly prompts her. “What’s it like Lou?”

“Like they’ve got different agendas.”

An interesting choice of words, he’s not sure he likes the sound of that. “Well, it’s one thing that his daemon likes you, but Hannibal and I… we’re very different people. His good opinion of you aside, I’m not exactly a great catch; scruffy, antisocial, unrefined. He’s probably just trying to keep things more professional.”

“Maybe.” She tucks her nose back under her forepaws.

“You said I’d be the one to overthink this.” He teases with a slight smile. She harrumphs indelicately, but he feels her mood lighten a fraction.

How about that? He just made himself feel better. That seems like progress.

\- - - -

Throat on fire and bloody hand wrapped in gauze, he is standing with Jack and Tanith, trying to explain away two dead police-offers. He is recounting - for the third time - how he thought he heard a car crash and left the store for a moment, "...just a _moment_ Jack-" when the call comes in. Hannibal has been attacked, Hannibal has killed in self-defence.

Loumalous’ hackles go up.

Jack side-eyes her as he hangs up. “She alright?”

Head striking like flint, Will rattles aspirin into his palm. “We’re a bit thrown Jack.” There’s a bite to his hoarse voice, he smooths it out, “Is Hannibal alright?”

He points to his car. “Let’s go see.”

Tanith precedes Jack into Hannibal’s office, Loumalous impatient behind Jack’s slow moving legs, and finally Will breaches the door frame. There are black body bags on the floor, and Will’s stomach clenches miserably at the blood and debris in the ordered sanctum where he gives his confessions.

A flash of movement from one corner of the room, and Jevgēņjia ploughs into Loumalous, sending her sprawling against a small table, rocking the ornate wooden horse atop it. Lou lies on her back with her forepaws curled in surprised submission, looking dazed as Jia stands astride her. “I was worried you were dead,” she nuzzles Lou’s face.

Will meets Hannibal’s eyes, shining out of an exhausted, battered, face. The emotion there catches his breath.

“Let’s maintain some crime scene integrity, shall we?” Tanith mutters in a low growl, but Jack refuses to look at the daemons; his teeth are already chewing on a more troubling piece of gristle.

He addresses Hannibal, keeping his voice low. “Tobias Budge kills two Baltimore Police Officers, nearly kills an FBI Special Agent, and after all that, his first stop is your office.”

Pulling away from his survey of Will’s features, Hannibal turns to the head of the BAU. “He came to kill my patient.” There’s a cut across his nose, blood still smeared down one side of his mouth. He holds a square of gauze to a wound on his leg.

“Your patient. Is that who Tobias Budge was serenading?” Will’s voice comes out steadier than he feels, relief and guilt warring, pulling resources from his legs; his knees threaten to shake.

“I don’t know. Franklyn knew more than he was telling me.” Hannibal is holding together well, but stringing these sentences together appears strenuous, far from his usual articulate ease. “He told Mr. Budge he didn’t have to kill anymore. Then he broke Franklyn’s neck. Then he attacked me.”

“And you killed him.” Delivered with all the finesse of a blunt force instrument.

Hannibal drops his eyes, his answer barely audible. “Yes.”

Guilt wins in the battle against relief, blooming out in Will's chest to occupy his organs. Tanith is still watching Lou and Jia; the two are in a less compromising position, but still pressed close together. He forces himself to remain professional.

“Could your patient have been involved with any of what Budge was doing?”

“I thought this was a simple matter of poor choice in friends,” his tone bitter, confounded, self-effacing.

Jack sweeps his gaze across Hannibal’s office, “This doesn’t feel simple to me.”

The wolf hums her agreement, and joins Jack in sniffing around the crime scene, leaving Hannibal to Will. Moving to lean against Hannibal’s desk, with the same gentle caution he reserves for stray dogs and Abigail, Will tries to make eye contact. Hannibal – for once – dodges his gaze. 

Will’s eyes skit off around the office, guilt contracting into shame, “I feel like I’ve dragged you into my world.”

“I got here on my own,” dismissive and reassuring in equal parts, “but I appreciate the company.” Their eyes meet again, and Will sees vulnerability and affection offered to him, accompanied by a slight challenge, one that dares him to try and take responsibility for the Hannibal’s actions.

He can’t help but smile, though it sits strangely on his face and dislodges quickly. Hannibal’s face is tilted up towards him, all his exotic angles sharpened, only his eyes softened by a sheen of emotion. Again, he is first to break eye contact, leaving Will floundering for supportive content. The deftness with which Hannibal handles their conversations has never left him reaching for something to say. “They’ll probably let you go home now, if you’re happy to leave the agents unattended here.”

Hannibal looks around the room; various FBI and coroner jackets circle the carnage of his office, their daemons carefully treading or slithering between the yellow number boards. He looks back at Will, gaze dropping to land on his bandaged hand. “Are you still needed here?”

Leaning back and adjusting his position on the desk, Will turns to look around. Jack and Tanith are still absent, no one else would stop him. “Jack already took my statement. Twice. There’s no missing perp for me to profile. I’m probably off the hook.”

Nodding, Hannibal swallows, eyes shining again. “Then perhaps you would join me. The company would still be appreciated.” The hair falling across his forehead and the slight disarray of his clothes makes him look younger, more approachable.

Will bites his lip, trepidation swirling the desiccated leaves in his belly – where other people have butterflies. “Sure.”

The journey in Hannibal’s Bentley is uninterrupted by conversation. Lou’s approval of Will’s decision resonates through their connection, and he tries to feed that to the part of his brain telling him this is a terrible idea. The silence between Hannibal and Jia has more of a strained quality to it, or maybe it just seems that way because of Loumalous’ earlier concerns.

Naturally Jevgēņjia would be quiet; she would have had to fight Budge’s daemon too. He doesn’t suppose the python daemon was much of a match for her, she was too smart to let it around her throat; not that the Colombian boa had had much luck with Lou’s muscular neck. 

Loumalous’ earlier concerns seem more justified when they enter Hannibal’s house. Jevgēņjia wastes no time in creating as much distance between herself and her human as she can, without testing the limits of their bond. Following Hannibal through the halls, Will passes the dining room to see Jia waiting for Lou with dark ears pricked forward expectantly. Loumalous peels off and Will hesitates for a moment, then leaves her and continues into the kitchen. His host has shed his jacket and is tying an apron around his waist. 

A vision of the fight flashes through his head as Hannibal limps lightly to the refrigerator. He can’t imagine Hannibal’s face as he defends himself. Fear doesn’t feel right, what expression would have sat there? Determination perhaps. 

“I guess we both know what it’s like to kill now.” Perhaps not the most tactful thing to say under the circumstances, but Hannibal looks back with a crooked smile.

“Yes, I suppose we do.” He closes the door and turns around. “May I cook you dinner?”

Blinking around the kitchen and nodding, Will lifts and drops his shoulders. He knows it will help Hannibal to relax. “Thanks.” He adds, figuring a shrug is not the most gracious response.

A chopping board and an array of vegetables line up on the counter. Hannibal purses his lips, “If I had known killing a man was the way to get you to my table…” He finishes with a coy smile.

This startles a laugh from Will. “C’mon, I’ve had dessert _and_ breakfast here.”

“Quite different, I assure you.” He pulls assorted ingredients from the fridge. “I almost succeeded the other week, you even made it into the building, brought a bottle. What changed?”

_Oh great._ So cooking soothes Hannibal, and apparently, so does psychoanalysis. He should have known.

“The prospect of ‘other people’ was one thing to overcome,” he stresses, then stretches his throat to emphasise, “the reality was another.” That, and the shocked gasp from one of the other early guests, as he made his way into the hall, her fluffy Bichon Frise daemon darting behind her legs to seek protection from Loumalous’ hulking presence.

“A shame,” Hannibal draws his attention back. “Social anxiety is a terrible burden for a social animal. Perhaps one of these days you will see, as I do, that you surpass them all – in every conceivable way – and their opinions are hollow.”

Eyes fixed on the tiles at the far end of the kitchen, Will skips passed the compliment. “If their opinions are so hollow, why do you spend time with them?”

“I’m a social animal too.” Hannibal washes the courgettes, in preparation of shaving them.

“Not many African wild dogs around.”

“As rare as brown hyenas.”

“So we’re both alone.”

Pausing with his blade before the first incision, he waits for Will’s eyes, “We don't have to be."

Will widens his eyes, shredding the words for meaning. Seeking validation of life after a near death experience is a well-known psychological response; most people tend towards seeking physical confirmation. They both came close to dying today; they both feared for the other, feel responsible for the other’s injuries. What is Hannibal offering?

He shivers, cold suddenly, and stares as his breath steams in the air before him. No, that can't be real, it's warm in here, or it was a minute ago. 

Hannibal puts the knife down next to the intact courgette, dries his hands on a starched white dishtowel, approaches Will. He lays a hand on Will’s cheek, simultaneously searing cold and blistering hot. Will leans into it, eyes fixed on Hannibal. He looks unhappy as he peers into Will, then encloses him in a hug, the hand on his face sliding back into his hair. Will remains rigid for a moment before remembering how to relax, bringing his own arms around Hannibal’s back.

The body beneath the shirt is firm and sculpted, unexpected and distracting as Will tries to process being held. In the semi-unconscious profile he has built of Lecter, as he builds one for everyone, the doctor keeps a cardio-vascular exercise regime. These muscles tell him he's made a mistake somewhere, there's a dedicated weights component to his routine.

Well, good. It’s good he keeps fit, otherwise Tobias might have overpowered him. He squeezes Hannibal harder at the thought. “I was worried about you too.” He confesses, realising he hasn’t said anything to that effect yet.

The fingers in his hair begin to massage gently, and oxytocin sluices through the floodgates, or that's how he chooses to interpret the rush of comfort the contact brings.

Hannibal shifts his chin closer to Will's ear. “Our daemons are spying on us.” He whispers to Will.

He lets himself give an awkward laugh. “Little devils.”

The sentiment gets a chuckle, and he pulls away, leaving a hand clasped on his shoulder. “Food, then?”

Will nods. When Hannibal steps away the room feels much bigger than it had before. Will watches him methodically slicing the zucchini with a knife, feeling he has gained and lost something vital in a matter of minutes.

Loumalous’ nose snuffles against his hand. He stares down at her in shock. She’s looking back, uncertain, but supportive. He reaches out with a tentative hand and strokes the top of her head, once, twice. He lets his hand drop. Something warm transmits through their bond. He nods at her, and she shuffles back a few steps, before returning to where Jevgēņjia maintains a frosty distance in the dining room doorway.

So Jevgēņjia is still giving Hannibal the cold shoulder. Is it because he killed in self-defence? Or because he broke confidentiality? Because she feels he put Will in danger?

Glancing back to where Hannibal is warming olive oil in a pan, he decides to follow his gut. Or, his soul, in this case.

Jia and Lou have retreated under the table in the dining room, at what Will would hazard is the very limit she can comfortably stretch from Hannibal, stationed in the kitchen.

He crouches between the chairs. “Hey, uh, Jia.” He’s never tried to pronounce her name before, he’s not about to start now. “You okay? You seem kinda…” her red-brown eyes are uncanny, “angry.”

“Not at you.” She assures him, though there’s little warmth in her tone.

“‘Kay.” He nods, taking a moment to inspect the floorboards before looking up again. “Would you tell me why you’re mad at Hannibal? You don’t have to.” He realises he’s talking to her like she’s a child. It’s difficult not to when speaking to someone under a table.

She arches her brow in a very human expression. It makes him smile.

“If you are attempting to play the mediator between human and daemon, I would question your credentials.”

“So you are pissed at me.”

“Not for the same reasons, but yes, maybe a little.”

His eyes track to Loumalous. “Because of how I am with Lou.”

“Correct.” She draws his gaze back. “You have a very special daemon, Will. And you treat her abominably.”

“I do.” He agrees, taking the chastisement on the chin, supressing the myriad reasons for doing so before they can leap to his defence. “Do you believe Hannibal is treating you ‘abominably’.”

The red eyes flash and there’s dark humour there. “That’s some lazy psychiatry, Mr Graham,” she parrots his sentiment from an early session, “I’m quite sure you can do better. But don’t trouble yourself, I appreciate your efforts. Trust that Hannibal and I will resolve our difference, the next time we have an opportunity to talk.”

“We could go?” Lou says quickly.

Jevgēņjia swings her head round to look at her adoringly. “No my dear. I’ll keep you as long as I can.”

Will feels a flush crawl up his neck, and he stands, leaving them to their privacy. Smoothing his hands on the glossy table surface, he collects himself from the dizzy sensation that is almost certainly just from standing up too quickly. A prickle of sweat between his shoulder blades; it seems very hot in this room. 

While Hannibal cleans the scant remnants of their aesthetic feast, Will subtly texts his neighbours, calling in a favour to have his dogs fed and watered.

Duly impressed and satisfied by the meal, Will's strange temperature fluctuations seem to have calmed for now, and evening finds them again in Hannibal’s drawing room. Richly textured music cascades through the air from hidden speakers, as though high above them, a sonic aurora borealis. Jia and Lou lay sprawled across each other on the hearth in the inconstant light of another fire.

Some background thought process decides to inform him of a conclusion it has reached: he would let Hannibal seduce him. The thought sends a jolt of electricity through him, and he turns to focus on his wine glass with sudden consuming interest.

This, thank god, starts Hannibal talking about grapes and soils and vineyards, a topic that really holds no interest for Will, but allows him to nod along and pretend interest while he waits for his libido to take it down a notch. He doesn’t need to be interested in the topic to find Hannibal’s breadth of knowledge impressive, or his voice as full-bodied and complex as the cabernet he’s expounding on.

“…don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” He has no idea what he’s just agreed to. Hannibal looks at him with his usual amusement.

“Drifting off a bit, were you?”

_Oops_. “Maybe a bit. Not far.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” For an awful moment, Will thinks Hannibal is suggesting they discuss this tension between them, but no, Hannibal’s expression has shifted subtly into concern. He thinks the attacks and deaths of the day are weighing on him.

“Not really. Would you?”

“It’s been a trying day. Perhaps we should both get some rest. You are welcome to use the guest room again.”

Employing every ounce of guile he has managed to accumulate over the last twenty years, Will manages to cover his disappointment. “Thank you. That… would be great. Car’s still here in Baltimore, somewhere, I can get it in the morning.”

“I’ll drop you there after breakfast.”

Too soon, he finds himself sliding between cold sheets. Loumalous doesn’t seem to mind, secure in Jia’s affection. More and more they seem to share something he is not privy to; it intrigues and unsettles him.

Driving home the next day, Will is definitely, decidedly, dedicatedly, determinedly relieved that Hannibal had kept things strictly platonic. What a terrible mistake that would have been; how irredeemably messy and awkward. No, Hannibal was becoming a close personal friend, maybe one of those life-long friends one hears about. What a waste it would be, to throw that away for cheap life-affirming sex after some mild trauma.

Hannibal; undoubtedly a wiser man than Will, a better man than Will.

But in the dark fractions of his blinks, he feels the way Hannibal’s arms bunched around his shoulders in the kitchen, the way his warm cheek pressed against the cold shell of Will’s ear, the way his fingers tightened in his hair.

When his phone buzzes that evening, he half throws himself across the room. Hannibal has messaged him about a neurologist appointment, and Will’s enthusiasm puffs out with a small gout of disappointed smoke.

Oh yeah, that’s right. Will is too unstable for a relationship. Better get his faulty fucking brain examined. He tosses his phone into the laundry pile and stalks to the cupboard to get himself a glass of bourbon. Loumalous sighs and lies down with the dogs; they wag tails and groan happily, shifting to accommodate her, Winston and Buster come to join him on the couch. This - this is all he needs. A simple life. _It's better this way._

\- - -

At the end of the week, visiting a neurologist doesn’t seem like such a crazy notion, considering he has _zero_ idea how he comes to be standing in Hannibal’s waiting room, a three hour drive from where he was half a second ago.

Loumalous stands beside him, blinking and looking around, identically discombobulated. “What-” She begins to say, when the office door opens.

“Will? I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Nnn?” Is all he can manage, and Jia butts past Hannibal’s legs to come trotting to the hyena.

“Louma,” she says fondly, tone coloured with worry. “Are you okay mylimasis?”

Closing his eyes - _will he be somewhere else when he opens his eyes? -_ and feeling his body begin to quake, he lets Lou answer for him.

“I don’t know how we got here.”

“Come into the office.” Hannibal says, his voice closer than Will expected. He opens his eyes and Hannibal stands before him, expression warm and displaying none of the concern evident in the painted dog’s tone.

Inside, he takes Will’s coat and leaves his side to look out the window. “Your car is outside. So we know you drove. Safely it would seem.”

“I was on a beach in Grafton, West Virginia... I blinked, and then I was waking up in your waiting room. Except I wasn’t asleep.”

“Have you confirmed your appointment with Dr Sutcliffe?”

“Uh-” Will looks around the room for help. “It keeps, uh, slipping my mind.”

Hannibal growls, which takes Will by surprise, and the man marches to his desk, sharply picking up the landline and punching keys with a steady finger.

Feeling juvenile and irresponsible, in addition to the fear running in a cold sweat down his back, Will shuffles to his usual seat and drops into it. A moment later, a weight lands on his thigh, and he looks up to find Jevgēņjia resting her chin on his leg. There’s fabric between them, it’s not physical contact with another soul, but it’s pretty damn close.

He gawps down at Hannibal’s daemon. To his right, he hears Hannibal’s voice skip a beat on the phone.

“Please look after yourselves,” she whispers, “we like having you around.”

Never before, not even once, has Will felt the urge to touch another person’s daemon; now he has to grip the arms of his chair to resist it. He flicks his eyes quickly to Lou and back, she's gawking too.

“Something is wrong with me.” He whispers. The taste of bloated carrion fills his mouth, and the true horror of losing his mind begins to sink in. He really isn't in control of himself any more, he can't predict or trust himself. 

“Jack Crawford gave you a chance to quit, why didn’t you take it?”

“I save lives.” 

“What about your life?” Will has no response to that. “We don’t care about the lives you save. We care about your life.”

“Jia…” What’s he meant to say to that? They stare at each other for a moment, her burnt ochre eyes bright with a stripe of light from the window.

The sound of the phone being set in its cradle breaks their eye contact, and she lifts her head from his thigh to look over at her counterpart. Will waits a moment before doing the same.

Hannibal walks toward his chair, spine still stiff with displeasure. “You’re lucky,” he allows, voice level, unbuttoning his jacket and sitting down across from Will. “Not only had Donald kept your original appointment aside for you, but a cancellation means the MRI scanner is available for you at 5pm this afternoon. I have told him we will attend.”

_We? Brain scan?_ “When you say cancellation, do you mean someone died?” _Yeah, that’s the salient question here._

A slight easing of the tension then, Will's question earning him the barest approximation of a smile. “He was not specific.”

\- - -

Divested of the hospital gown and back in his real-person clothes, Will returns reluctantly to the doctor’s office. Sutcliffe and Hannibal are no doubt discussing their residence days at Hopkins, or worse, the highly unusual specimen that is Will Graham’s brain. Lou ambles silently at his heels, guarded and uncomfortable in the alien environment.

The moment he opens the door, Jia greets them with: “They found something!”

Her declaration stuns everyone, Sutcliffe most of all. His albatross daemon shuffles her wings. “Well.” She says, turning her head this way and that. “Well.”

“Do come in, Will, and have a seat.” Hannibal offers warmly, as though this were his office.

“What? What did you find?”

“It’s encephalitis.” The African wild dog says happily, her voice slightly louder than usual, coming to nuzzle against Lou’s neck.

The neurologist clears his throat, glowering at Hannibal. With a wry smile, Hannibal tilts his face to his former colleague. “My apologies Donald, it would appear Jevgēņjia has quite an investment in this. We will let you deliver your professional opinion.”

“Right. Well, yes…” He searches Hannibal’s eyes with a frown, then leans over his keyboard and clicks through a few files on his computer, clearing his throat again before swinging the screen round. “The entire right side of your brain is inflamed. It is some kind of encephalitis, _possibly_ Anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis, which is much more likely to happen in young women, but it’s not unheard of in men.” He pauses and looks Will up and down. “I’m going to recommend you for a spinal tap, asap, and once that’s confirmed we’ll get you on some anti-virals. Symptoms can get worse quickly, so I’m recommending you remain under supervision until it’s cleared up.”

“Wait.” Will’s hand comes up to emphasise the request. “You don’t mean I have to stay in hospital?”

The doctor leans back in his chair, eyes cold. “I just told you half your brain is on fire; your headaches, disorientation, and hallucinations are likely to get worse. You really want to be driving around right now?”

“I dislike hospitals.” Will says acidly, hostility the only viable response.

“A hospital is a stressful environment for an individual with an empathy disorder;" Hannibal intercedes, "stress too could accelerate his symptoms. It might be best if he were remanded into my care. I can bring him back for the spinal tap.”

The look Sutcliffe shoots his former colleague is poisonous. The tone between them has changed drastically since Will had his MRI. He glances between them, wondering if there was a disagreement while he was out the room, or if it was just Jia’s affectionate display that changed things. Jia has turned back to look at Sutcliffe's daemon, and will can't see her face, but the albatross looks as sour as his human.

“Commendable of you to offer your time, Hannibal, but with his brain as inflamed as it is, he could start having seizures at any time. Best he stays in the PCU for now. And that way, if we get another cancellation, I can bump him right up the list.” The neurosurgeon's tone is so perfectly reasonable that in borders on cloying.

Hannibal blinks slowly and smiles, something a little like admiration in his eyes, though perhaps, not so benign. “Extremely thoughtful of you, Donald, thank you for all the concessions you are making for Will.”

Dr Sutcliffe’s gaze returns to Will, his smile less forced. “You seem like a bright young man. Hate to see you go to waste.”

Dread has been slowly creeping through the tiled floors toward him, and now it's clammy claws are all over his skin. Will hopes that the disorientation is part of the encephalitis too, because he can't help but feel he's missing something significant, can't help but read sinister lines into the conversation. But they're just discussing his treatment, this is classic paranoia. Surely, these people are trying to help him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, things are going to get worse before they get better... •ֱ̀ ␣̍ •ֱ̀


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The evening passes in an excruciating flurry of questions, intake forms, and people talking about him as though he were not present. A band cinches around his wrist that marks him as the hospital's by the time Will and Loumalous finally find themselves alone again. They are at least in a private room with a window, and though the view is only out onto a car lot, where the tops of cars gleam under streetlights like the backs of beetles in an entomology case, he has visited enough hospitals to know any view is a privilege.

It seems impossible that only that morning he had been living his life; walking the dogs, driving around, stepping into the minds of unknown serial killers, and now he is trapped in a hospital room with a swollen brain. Actually, the swollen brain thing makes a lot of sense, his headaches never really stop and start these days, just continue as a constant pounding ache, an omnipresent background thunder. He had begun to think this pervasive pain was somehow normal, deserved.

“Hannibal and Jia are still arguing.” Lou quietly notes.

“What? They seemed fine earlier.”

“Didn’t you notice, after the MRI scan? They refused to look at each other.”

Will frowns. It had all been a whirlwind of terrifying diagnoses and claustrophobic hospital corridors. He’d noticed Hannibal and Sutcliffe seeming at odds, but not the daemon.

"He did something to put Sutcliffe out, I think. Maybe she was mad about that.”

“Maybe.” Louma climbs onto the chair and looks out the window. _Louma_ , he thinks, _I quite like that._ He picks absently at the loose stitching on one of the hospital blankets. “Do you like it when she calls you Louma?”

The hyena looks back at him with a bashful smile. “I do. It almost means ‘my wolf’, instead of sounding like, ‘bad wolf’. Or, ‘Lou’, which sounds like how they say ‘toilet’ in England.”

"Oh. I didn’t realise. You, could have told me that.”

Loumalous looks out the window. “Never saw the point. Seemed appropriate until Jia came along.”

His heart clenches like a fist. “Lou – Louma, I’m sorry. Sorry I make you feel like… like a toilet.”

“You, the world…” She shrugs the angle of her back. “I can’t change the world, but screw the world.” She turns around and drops back onto the floor, padding towards the bed. “If you could accept me, I wouldn’t need the world.”

Tears come to his eyes. He wants to accept her, but it would mean accepting more than just her outward appearance. He reminds himself of how she represents his dark impulses and looks away. How can he accept that part of himself? He can’t see how to make it work, but he lowers a hand by the side of the bed. After a moment, she comes and leans against it.

Hannibal comes to see him the very next day. Everyone else has the sense to see what Will is, why won’t Hannibal?

Loumalous allows Jia to tuck herself into her side, but says little. Both Hannibal and his daemon notice Will’s lacklustre responses.

“Is it not a relief to find a physiological basis for your condition?”

“Sure.” And it is. Really.

“You do not have the appearance of a man reassured.”

"If you’re expecting a complete personality make-over, I’d wait until the antivirals have kicked in.”

“Do you believe you will be so changed?”

“Who knows? So far, we don’t know anything for sure, except that I’ve got to stay in this god-awful place for an indefinite period of time.”

“Donald has certainly found you an excellent room.”

“A gilded cage.” Will mutters bitterly. Jia huffs in amusement, but Hannibal keeps regarding him curiously. “I know, I know. You and your friend ‘Donald’ are bending over backwards to accommodate me, and I’m behaving like an ingrate, but I just _hate_ hospitals.”

“There are many superficial reasons one might take such a loathing to a specific environment, but I suspect there’s something deeper there. It does not seem to be directly related to your operation this afternoon… did you lose someone in a hospital, Will?”

“Yes. But that’s not why I hate them.”

“Who did you lose?”

“My father.”

“And if not the loss of your father, what fear does a hospital bring out of you?”

With a sigh that could have rolled tumbleweed, Will points out, “You’re psychoanalysing me again.”

“I can’t get you released from the hospital, so I’m trying to find the root of your anxiety, that I may ease it.”

Grinding his teeth heightens Will’s headache, so he forces his jaw to relax. “Why does there have to be some deep complex reason? Can’t I just hate hospitals because they’re eminently hateable?”

His churlish response has Hannibal visibly suppressing a smile, and Will enjoys seeing the struggle, it’s a rare treat.

“Nosocomephobia, the fear of hospitals. Your president Nixon reputedly shared it.”

“I never said it was a phobia. You got me in here without kicking and screaming.”

“Only in the literal sense.”

“Even you didn’t think there was anything to worry about, last time we spoke about it.”

Hannibal looks at Jia. “I was wrong.”

Three words Will never expected to hear from the doctor’s mouth, but his painted dog blinks back, accepting the words. The man and his daemon seem to have made their peace.

The door pushes open, and all four heads swivel to see the albatross waddle into the room, followed by Dr Sutcliffe. The two doctors, friends from residency, exchange eye contact, and a fine hoar frost covers the hospital room.

“Mr Graham.” Dr Sutcliff rips his gaze from Hannibal’s and offers Will a bright smile that might have seemed credible to a less astute patient. “How are we feeling today?”

“Much better thanks, perhaps I should just get out of your hair.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Says Sutcliffe, his smile turning cynical if not more genuinely amused. He approaches with a penlight and flashes it into Will’s eyes. “Can you see that?” He asks.

“Yes, it’s a bright light.” 

“What about this?”

“What about what?”

Sutcliffe’s finger is suddenly in front of his face, appearing fully in his vision without appearing to move into it. Will’s startled response must be clear from the way Lou’s hair stands up on end. The finger disappears as quickly, and Will snatches up to grab Sutcliffe’s hand – it’s still in front of his face, just to the left, and he can’t see it. He turns his head, and the information updates in his brain.  


“I don’t understand. It’s not blacked out or anything…” When he moves his own hand in front of his face, he can still see his fingers.

The doctor pockets his light and the smile has become condescending. “It’s called ‘filling-in’, everyone’s brains do it, filling in for missing information in our blind spots and peripheral vision. Your brain is compensating for you.”

Hannibal joins the conversation, and Will switches from looking at the doctor hovering over him to the one sitting next to him, and feels trapped. “Perhaps even more than that. There’s a theory called predictive coding, which suggests the brain actively predicts what input it will receive, rather than just passively processing information as it arrives.”

“Yes,” Sutcliffe regains command of the conversation. “Effectively, our brains construct an incredibly complex jigsaw puzzle using any pieces it can get access to; the context we’re in, our memories and predictions, our other senses. The right side of your brain is inflamed, it made sense that the vision in your left eye would be compromised. So there’s no getting out of this, Mr Graham.” Will sees but can’t understand the flash of triumph as the doctor’s gaze darts to Hannibal and back. “You’re here until you get better.”

The spinal tap itself proves less painful than expected, but makes his headache worse. He lies on his front, feeling flattened as though he has fallen from a great height. A chunk of his back feels numb or absent, with a dull ache from somewhere deep within him, a companion throb to his head. If he didn’t know different, he could imagine he’d broken his back

Sutcliffe’s brown eyes appear in his field of vision, almost kind above the green facemask. “This is good.” He holds up a syringe full of cloudy liquid, his cerebrospinal fluid. “It’s opaque, means you do have an infection in your brain. We can get it to the lab and find the best antivirals for you.”

“Yippee.” Will says drily, the lights hurting more than usual, his voice slurring.

“You rest up now, Mr Graham. We’ll have you feeling better in no time.”

\- - - -

Days and nights bleed together. At some point he finds himself in the tube of the MRI machine again, sometimes there are people in his room talking. In one lucid moment a nurse is changing his IV bag.

He groans and she smiles down at him, matronly wrinkles deepening with gravity’s pull. “How are you feeling, Will?” She’s talking to him like they know each other. Maybe they’ve talked before.

“Don’t know.”

She brings a straw to his lips, and he remembers how to suck; the second action every human learns, after screaming in the face of existence.

“You have quite a fever, but the antivirals should start helping soon.”

“S’good.”

“Don’t worry, Will. Dr Sutcliffe has taken a personal interest in your case. You’re lucky, he’s one of our best.”

"S’nice.” He doesn’t feel very lucky.

Days and nights bleed together, the landscapes behind his eyes pitch and vacillate with impossible dimensions, ratios skewing and bending logic. The tube of the MRI machine groans and thumps around him. The grey speckled ceiling swims above him - sometimes light, sometimes dark. There are fewer people talking, and then more again. Lou is a silent husk on the floor by his bed.

His dreams have split at the seams and pour into his reality, dead bodies stacked in an elaborate totem pole, skewered through with a range of implements. A wound totem; bigger than the one at Grafton, looming over him like the tower of Babel, with Marissa Shuur’s body impaled at the top, clutching the arm of Miriam Lass. At the time, it makes perfect sense that the copycat and the Ripper should share a totem of their victims, but it quickly evaporates as nonsense when he returns to consciousness.

Jack is sitting by his bed, absently rubbing Tanith behind her ears.

“Jack?”

He sits up straighter, eyes lifting to Will’s. “You’re awake. I'll get a doctor.” His voice sounds raspy and worn, perhaps he has been shouting more than usual.

“Wait," he croaks, "water.”

Nodding, Jack walks around the bed to where the nurse keeps a pitcher of water. He lifts the cup and straw for Will, who drinks just enough to wet his mouth, trusting the IV to keep him properly hydrated.

“When, are we?” He asks, the question sounding strange in his mouth.

“It’s March, Will. You’ve been out of it for four weeks.”

“Fuck.”

The profanity brings a fleeting smile to Jack’s lips. “You don’t know the half of it,” he sighs. “Let me get a doctor. You stay awake for more than five minutes, I might tell you.”

The doctor is one Will hasn’t seen before, bald and harried, brisk, and mercifully unencumbered by any pretence at amicability. He raises the position of the bed and clucks an approving noise as he checks Will’s readings against the charts. Will listens as he talks, most of it washing past his ears, it’s hard to keep his eyes open, but he wants that update from Jack, so focuses on the doctor’s vivid green frog daemon peeking out of his coat pocket. The doctor summarises with, “Looks like you’re through the worst of it. Should start to see improvements from here on out.”

He leaves, waving Jack and Tanith back in, and Will puts all his energy into keeping his eyes pinned open. “Tell me.”

Jack lowers himself back into the seat he’d been occupying before, and leans forward, clasping his hands in the space between his knees. “Will, the Ripper killed again; three bodies in two weeks. We think we know who he is.” He’s speaking slowly, gently, the way he does to the families of victims.

“He. Left evidence?”

“We might not have thought to look, but Hannibal-”

“Hannibal?” The name causes a spike in his heart rate, which can be heard over the monitor, never mind how it feels in his chest.

Noting the sound, Jack’s eyebrows raise slightly. “Yeah, Hannibal gave us the idea.” He fidgets. “Will, it's looking like Donald Sutcliffe is the Ripper.”

“My doctor?” 

Nodding gravely, Jack leans back a little. “The timing of the kills with your hospitalisation already seemed like too much of a coincidence. We knew the Ripper read Tattle Crime, he would have known who you were, maybe decided to do a ‘sounder’ while you were out of commission. But when you continued to get worse, and Sutcliffe banned visitors, Hannibal mentioned covering for him during residency, and we began digging. Moved in on him ten days ago, found strong physical evidence at his house, but he’d already ghosted.” Jack hammers his thigh with a closed fist. “He’s in the wind.”

Beside Jack, Tanith growls, the smooth surface of her muzzle wrinkling up to show her teeth. She stands up and shakes, snorts the frustration from her nostrils, and comes forward to rest her head on the edge of the bed, eyes meeting Will’s. “We think he may have been making you worse.”

“Even in Freddie’s articles you’re touted as our ‘prized profiler’.” Jack adds. “It might have proved too much of a temptation to... well.”

It’s uncharacteristic for Jack to leave his sentences unfinished. Will finishes for him, “Tamper with. My brain.” It drives a wince to Jack’s face, and Will finds himself gratified at the man’s discomfort, before the full implications settle in. “Think he, managed to?”

“You’re on the mend now, Will, that’s all that matters.”

There’s no response to that, that he can see. So he nods, because it will look like acquiescence, or at least acknowledge that Jack spoke. The information is fever bright in his brain, and he wonders if this is just a more cohesive elaborate scenario than his previous nightmares.

Can you dream within a dream? Will’s eyes slide shut. Time to find out.

The next time he wakes, Hannibal is at his bedside, stroking the hair back from his face. Will blinks up at him, and he smiles down, unrepentant at being caught. 

“You’re awake.” His eyes are fierce and glisten with moisture.

"Mmm.” Will tries to lick his lips, his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. Hannibal brings a cup of water to his lips, no straw this time, sliding an arm behind his back and helping him sit up to take a sip. He manages to swallow without coughing, and Hannibal gently lowers him back. Will misses the arm at his back when it retreats. There’s a pleasant weight against his soul though, and he knows without looking that Jia and Louma are pressed close together.

Returning the cup to the bedside table, Hannibal sits again, leaning forward to take Will’s hand in both of his own. The contact is warm and welcome. “I’m so sorry,” he speaks quietly, “I brought you to him.”

With a gentle pressure on his hand, Will offers a small smile. “Didn’t know.”

Shaking his head and avoiding eye contact, he reminds Will of how he appeared after Tobias’ attack. “The day of your scan… I had misgivings. It was too late already. And still, I did nothing.”

“Told Jack.”

“Eventually,” Hannibal scoffs, “but only after he had killed again, and forbade you visitors.”

Something in his tone indicates the second crime was more vexing than the first. “Why?”

“I suspect he wasn’t keen to have your FBI colleagues in proximity, nor me, as I would no doubt have questioned his treatments.”

It makes sense. It also doesn’t make sense. It’s too convenient, somehow. Convenient for who? The Ripper doesn’t make mistakes, why now? Why risk everything just to mess with Will?

Sutcliffe had demonstrated narcissism, ambition, competitiveness, a lack of empathy; but nothing that hinted at that greater darkness or artistic flair. He never would have thought that the Ripper would have an albatross as a daemon either, Will had always believed it would be a land predator. True, albatrosses were solitary predators that hunted on the wing, but… pigs. Sounders. Albatross. Fish.

His thoughts are hardly trustworthy at the moment. They scatter and re-gather with each breath, and he can’t entirely trust that the thoughts that return are the same ones that left.

Hannibal, perhaps sensing the strain in his mental processing, changes the subject. “I should like to bring Abigail to see you. She has been worried about you.”

“Here?” Will scrunches his face.

“You watched over her in hospital, would you not let her return the favour?”

“She know that?”

“She does now,” Hannibal smiles softly, “and she faced her own challenges during your absence, I’m sure you would both benefit from a visit.”

Will’s mind sharpens, as do his eyes. A bolt of fortifying anger shoots through him. “Freddie…”

“Not Freddie. Not yet, although that book still looms. No, the body of Nick Boyle was found, giving Jack more ammunition to hound her. Alana and Angus acted as a buffer, but Jack had Abigail identify the body, and while she displayed admirable resilience, she and Tunis were both shaken after the fact.”

Beside Hannibal and Jia, the hairs along Lou’s hackles begin to lift. “That damn bully,” she snarls, with a vehemence that surprises Will.

He examines his feelings for Jack, who has started to feel like a sort of friend over past months. A pushy demanding boss, for sure, but a friend despite that. He decides to wait and talk to Lou about this privately.

He tries to lick his lips, his tongue making a rough passage, and Hannibal notices, sitting closer and bringing the cup to his lips. He drinks with Hannibal’s arm around him again, and would drink the whole glass to maintain this intimacy, but Hannibal takes away the cup after a few swallows. 

“Thank you.”

Hannibal rearranges himself on his chair. “You know, your new doctors might be more open to the suggestion of you continuing your recovery in my care, given the circumstances.”

His diseased brain vaguely recalls Hannibal suggesting such a thing to Sutcliffe. It would be humiliating being in Hannibal’s home as an invalid, being brought meals and medication; a burden. He has offered twice now though, and if recovery means more time spent lucid, he would rather be anywhere than a hospital. 

“If you get me out, you can let Abigail visit.” He closes his eyes. He should be more polite, more grateful, but he’s tired. And it’s bright in here, even with his eyes closed. And his brain aches. Aches. Aches.

Hannibal pulls various strings, and Will is released from the hospital. Wheeled out in a chair, discharged by none-other than the director of the hospital, who falls over himself with apologies. Freddie Lounds, rat daemon riding her shoulder, snaps pictures as Hannibal helps him stand from the wheelchair.

“Will Graham, is it true you were being treated by the Chesapeake Ripper? Did you have any sense of who he might be?” Her dictaphone homes in on his face, Hannibal turns his shoulder to block her. “Is it true he targeted you? Was he poisoning you?”

The hospital director tries to usher her away and she turns on him, the albino rat’s red eyes boring into the aghast yellow eyes of the ruffled owl daemon. “Director Bergman, how is it that one of this country’s most prolific serial killers could have been comfortably employed here for the last fifteen years?”

The relentless questions are muted suddenly by the car door shutting as Hannibal takes advantage of Freddie’s diversion. The director's forced courtesy briefly audible as the back door opens for the daemons, and then finally Hannibal slides into the drivers seat.

“Quick.” Will mutters wryly. “Before she follows us to your house.”

“God forbid.” Hannibal responds with a parody of a shudder.

After so long in bed, sitting up in the front of Hannibal’s car seems strange, overwhelming. He thinks he’s bearing the disorientation and dizziness stoically until Hannibal reaches over and depresses the button for reclining the chair. Uncanny. Perceptive. Thoughtful. Controlling?

“Get some rest if you can, Will. We all heal faster when we sleep.”

He thinks he might actually be able to. Despite being sequestered in one of the private rooms, the ergonomic design of the Bentley’s seats puts the hospital bed to shame. The heating in Hannibal’s car doesn’t smell like burnt dust, it doesn’t smell of anything. His limbs feel loose and relaxed. His head still hurts, but its fuzzier now, less insistent. His eyes have already closed.

He leans against Hannibal as he walks into the house, groggy and sore, but appreciative of the hard body shoring up his own, and of the arm that curves around his back and under his arm, warm and solid.

The guest room is familiar; wood panels up to his waist, rich green wallpaper up to a high white ceiling. The bed is a double, headboard to the wall and a cabinet on either side. He takes in the matt bronze sheets, fresh on the bed, as Hannibal helps divest him of the coat over his sweatpants and t-shirt.

“Should I maybe shower before…?”

“Sleep first. The journey will have taken its toll. I have many bed linens, and changing them is no bother.”

Hannibal pulls back the sheets and Will sinks onto the bed, silently grateful. Loumalous drops onto the large cushion that exists for guest daemons, and Jia joins her to share a corner. Hannibal sits on the edge of the bed and strokes Will’s hair back from his forehead. The fondness is back in Hannibal’s eyes, and appears to be transitioning towards tenderness. The light in the room gets brighter and Will's pulse climbs steeply as his eyes drop to Hannibal's lips and the concept of living with Hannibal through his recovery suddenly separates itself from the fact of not being in hospital anymore. 

Removing his hand and standing, he pulls the covers over Will. “We’ll get you better, Will. The new antivirals are already working, we just have to keep your stress levels down for a little while, let you mend.”

“Better not let Jack anywhere near us then.” Louma says, out of sight but never out of mind.

Will sighs, “Jack’s our friend Lou.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t throw our mental health under a bus if he thinks it could help him.”

“Lou!”

“Please,” Hannibal interjects with placid amusement. “I would ask you both to keep your passions in check. That you immediately entered into a dispute over Jack the moment I mentioned stress does give me some pause, but I’d rather not ape Dr Sutcliffe and bar visitors from your door.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Will grumbles.

“But he will have to defer to my medical expertise if he tries to bring your work to you here. You both will.”

He can feel his face scowling as he stares at the ceiling, but there’s a reprieve in the thought. “Alright.” Maybe, here, he can cede a little control, in a way that wouldn't have felt possible in the hospital. His eyes close. "Thank you, Hannibal."

Hannibal's voice eases his passage into sleep, "You're most welcome, Will."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really fought back hard. I had conflicting instincts on how to deliver this and there are a few different versions of this chapter crumpled in the waste paper basket. I hope I went with the right one!
> 
> And, on that note, finish the chapter at the **~** mark if you're uncomfortable with smoochie naked time.

**Chapter 5**

The daemons are whispering to each other again, Will hears them at the edge of his perception. The meaning escapes him, but he senses that Lou feels safe – the skin under her pelt no longer cringing in the antiseptic hospital environment.

He opens his eyes blearily to see Hannibal reading in the low light of a shaded lamp, sitting with legs folded elegantly, burgundy socks showing where his trousers ride up slightly over his shiny brown brogues. The socks match the fine lines in his charcoal suit and the folded pocket square, suggesting a ridiculous level of planning to his outfits, or an organising system so anal that locating complimentary colours is trivial.

It also makes him look outlandishly debonair, standing out against the pale green armchair even in his own tastefully equipped guest room. Hair swept back, the light invites shadows to the other side of his face, and he looks part divine part demon.

Watching Hannibal read is, Will imagines, a little like watching him sleep; a stolen, almost voyeuristic pleasure. His muscles are relaxed, attention absorbed, eyes flicking along horizontal lines with the focus and precision of a laser. 

Loumalous notices that Will is conscious and the background murmur dries up, which brings Hannibal’s head up from his book.

“Ah, Will. Would you like some water?”

When Will wrinkles his forehead and nods, Hannibal takes off his jacket and folds it over the arm of the chair. Approaching, he slides an arm behind Will's back and encircles his ribs with a strong arm, the starched shirt pressing against his clammy t-shirt and skin. Hannibal's skin smells fresh, hints of salt and citrus and herbs carried in the warmth of his skin, and Will can’t tell if it’s a product or from preparing food.

The glass makes contact and water slides down his throat; cold liquid relief, startlingly delicious for a substance that constitutes the majority of his own physical chemistry. Hannibal carefully rights the cup at his lips before lifting it away. A single drop escapes, and one of Hannibal’s fingers detaches from the surface of the glass to collect it, barely brushing the skin.

While Will processes the tingle of nerves left in the digit’s fleet passage, Hannibal sets the glass down and precisely folds each of his shirt sleeves up by three turns of the cuff. From a drawer in the cabinet he produces a pair of nitrile gloves and Will watches him snap them on with mixing anxieties. 

“So, does this mean you’re actually my doctor now?”

The bedside drawer now equips Hannibal with a digital thermometer. Will squints at the instrument distrustfully and Lou sits up to watch the proceedings with a closer eye.

“More your nurse. I’m not deciding your course of treatment.”

“A nurse, huh? I wouldn’t have believed a former surgeon could show such modesty.”

“Nurses are invaluable. Besides, I have accolades to spare.”

“…And there goes the modesty. Nice while it lasted.”

He hears Jia chuckle and Hannibal has a gleam in his eye. “If you might turn your ear to me?” He shows Will the thermometer in an open palm, almost offering it to him for inspection. Will uses the same trick when introducing the dogs to something they find suspect; he snorts and looks to his left, exposing an ear. Sheathed fingers hold his hair back, and he shivers when the cold tip of the instrument enters his auditory canal.

“Is this really necessary?”

The gloved fingers stir slightly in his curls. “You spent two weeks as Donald’s patient, almost exclusively under his ‘care.’ The nurses were giving you the right antivirals, but Sutcliffe administered the majority of your medication.” Hannibal’s jaw tenses briefly. “We don’t know what he was giving you. Your blood screens came back inconclusive. Some Vidarabine in your system, but not as much as there should have been. The best case scenario: he was giving you a placebo, delaying your recovery and allowing the virus an opportunity to become resistant to the antivirals, so he could study your brain while it fought the infection.”

The thermometer beeps and Hannibal withdraws it to look at the dial. “97.2 Fahrenheit. A little high, but acceptable for now.”

The Ripper. Studying his brain. Studying his brain. The Ripper.

What was it Sutcliffe had said? ‘ _The projected image is more interesting than the projector, until the projector breaks down_.’

The angles are wrong and the pieces don’t fit. The Ripper uses meat-as-material to create an emergent aesthetic, beauty from the base. Sutcliffe is more interested in the meat itself; the projector, rather than the projected image. No, the Chesapeake Ripper believes the quality of the projected image determines the meat’s worth. If the image is too crude, too base, he repurposes the machine.

If the Ripper took notice of Will, and deemed him of more value than a pig, he wouldn’t want to study his meat; he’d want to study his mind.

Will’s eyes slide to Lou’s. She watches him with her shiny black eyes, her frosted russet face unreadable. Then she yawns and lies down, tucking her head into Jevgēņjia’s side.

These thoughts are too big and too troubling to tussle with now, with his head an echo chamber within which the booming throb of his pulse reverberates. He lays his head back on the pillow and watches a spider traversing the corniced seam where wall meets ceiling. His eyelids feel heavy.

He hears Hannibal pull off the nitrile gloves and wonders what the point of them was. “You mentioned a desire to get clean, when you arrived. I’m not sure you would do well in the shower yet, but I can run you a bath. The water would have to remain tepid, I’m afraid.”

Will’s eyelids are losing their battle, resting against each other, blotting out the view of the spider, where it has settled in a corner of the room.

“Sounds good. Maybe in a bit.”

“Alright, Will.” Hannibal’s voice is soft, soothing; a lullaby of Lithuanian inflection. “Take these pills, then you may sleep again.”

He is lifted and held again, warm and lax in the other man’s grip, his thoughts fuzzy. Obedient, he opens his mouth for the pills, and swallows from the cup brought to his lips. He doesn’t mind when Hannibal lowers him back to the mattress and withdraws his touch, because it’s done with such gentleness. The hands linger a moment at the edge of his senses, reassuring and steady, and he carries the sensation on into his dreams.

There’s no clock in the room. He’s not wearing a watch, he doesn’t know where his phone is. The curtains are closed, and the muted lamp makes it hard to check for light at the edges.

“Lou?”

“Mmm?”

“Where’s Hannibal?”

“Smells like he’s cooking.” She stands and stretches, a touch unsteady on her feet. “You look awful,” she commiserates.

This earns her a snort and half a smile. “At least you’re standing. Every time I sit up I feel like gravity goes haywire.”

“Well, you’re the one burdened with an actual brain. I’m just made of Dust or something.”

Will adjusts his head on the pillow. His eyes find the spider again, which now sits patiently at one side of a gossamer net. “Lou; Louma. Sutcliffe as the Ripper. Does that feel right to you?”

She sighs. “Trust you to be more suspicious about that than bothered by the malpractice.” She twists to bring her jaw within reach of her hind leg and scratches, then sits with her shoulders stooped, thinking. “I’m not totally convinced, no. Sutcliffe seemed… competent, but specialised. Boring. The Ripper, whoever he is, will be a master at all his trades. He has passion, and phenomenal control.”

“So, if Sutcliffe isn’t the Ripper, why frame him?”

“The Ripper was quiet for a while until Gideon,” Lou muses. “Maybe he regretted stirring the nest.”

“He didn’t like Gideon taking credit, but is happy to cast a ‘competent but boring’ neurologist as a patsy?” Something really doesn’t fit, it’s like trying to force a European plug into an American socket. “And if Sutcliffe wasn’t the Ripper, why sabotage my treatment?”

“Just because he wasn’t the Ripper, doesn’t mean he wasn’t a twisted in his own way.”

Will groans and drapes an arm across his eyes. “Then, is it a coincidence he framed our doctor? Or, does this actually have something to do with us?”

Without dismissing the idea, she asks, “Why would the Ripper help us?” and thinks it through. “He wouldn’t have known of us until Gideon. Or maybe Stammets, if he follows Tattle Crime that closely. And when he did push back after the article on Gideon, Jack and Tanith were the targets, not us.”

Human and daemon stare blankly at each other, Lou’s right, he can’t imagine why the Ripper would step in on his behalf. But if Sutcliffe isn’t the Ripper, then it’s hard not to see it that way.

The hyena stretches her neck. “Maybe it’s a god complex thing. He can take and break Jack’s toys, _or_ he can save them while Jack’s blundering around chasing the wrong man.”

“Huh. We’re Jack’s piece in a chess match, and the Ripper’s magnanimously righting us after we’ve been knocked off our square?” He supposed he could see a megalomaniacal kind of satisfaction in that. “How would he have known we were ill? Could it be another doctor at the hospital?” 

“While Doctor fits the profile I don’t think he would risk it if he worked there too. It would be too close to home. Maybe he’s keeping tags on the investigation… on the investigat _ors_.”

Will sighs. “Or maybe it is just a coincidence.”

“Or Sutcliffe really is the Ripper.”

“Or the Ripper had a connection to Sutcliffe that pre-dates us.”

Lou’s eyes lose focus and stare into the middle distance. Their link goes quiet, carefully still, like mirrored water.

“What?”

“Nothing. I lost my train of thought.”

Will rolls his head to look at her, feeling the skin gather between his brows. “Lou?”

She sniffs the air. “Whatever Hannibal’s cooking smells amazing. Smells nearly ready too. Do you feel hungry?”

His sense of smell is not as acute, and having been off solid food for a while, his stomach has become a small lethargic rock that protests at the thought of grinding into motion.

“Not particularly. But I’ll try and eat a bit.”

“Probably should.” She agrees.

There’s a knock at the door, and Will tenses. “Come in.”

Hannibal enters with a tray, Jia close behind to overtake him. She butt foreheads with Lou and snuffles under her ear, tickling a husky laugh from the hyena.

“Black Silkie Chicken broth with red dates, wolfberries, bok choy, ginseng and star anise.” Hannibal places the tray on the cabinet and lifts Will, propping him up with extra pillows.

“You made me chicken soup?” Will asks, straining to see the soup that he can only smell in wafting umami currents.

Hannibal lowers his lashes briefly. “Of all the folk remedies, it is perhaps the most effective. And the black-boned Silkie Chicken has been prized in China for its medicinal value since the 7th century.”

“Where do you find these things?”

A mysterious smile is his only answer as he places the tray over Will’s lap. The tray has little legs that unfold, but unlike the models he’s seen before, this is made from a dark red wood, carved and polished.

“Is this Chinese too?”

“Japanese, though the two cultures influenced each other much throughout their history.”

“The art in your office and study, some of that is Japanese?”

“Yes, some of it. I was fortunate enough to learn some of their customs when I stayed with my Uncle’s family in France. His wife was from Japan. Murasaki-sama.” His eyes wistfully track something in his memory, then refocus on Will. “Here,” he slides the spoon towards Will. “Eat as much by yourself as you can. When your arm gets tired I will take over.”

The prospect of being literally spoon fed by Hannibal sends a flurry of uncomfortable impressions skittering along his hindbrain; invalid, burden, chore. He resolves to eat the whole bowl without help.

Trying to marshal his fingers to cooperate in picking up the spoon and holding it level, Will murmurs, “There’s a lot I don’t know about you.”

Hannibal watches him with approvingly with hooded eyes. “Something I’m sure we can rectify. When you’re ready.”

The soup is delicious in the way only Hannibal’s cooking can be, and he manages two thirds of the bowl under his own steam. The exercise only highlights how weak he has become after a month insensate in bed, his hand has cramped into a claw, and he is exhausted by the effort of lifting the broth to his lips.

Hannibal’s warm hand encloses his, and with Jevgēņjia nuzzling against Lou, Will allows the other man to take the spoon. Having the spoon brought to his lips is less infantilising than he feared, but he maintains an aura of haughtiness each time he opens his mouth, refusing to cede graciously to his ineptitude.

The sparks in Hannibal’s gaze suggests he finds the activity even more entertaining in light of Will’s redundant defiance.

When the meal is finishes and the tray lifted away, Hannibal perches on the bed and firmly takes his hand, massaging palms and fingers back into relaxation. Groggily, Will is aware that this is the cue for his usual awkwardness to appear, but the wings of his mind are empty, and none the poorer for its absence. Sleep comes for Will once again and he drifts, the whispering of the daemons a susurration at the limits of his hearing.

He wakes one more time that evening, allowing himself to be led to Hannibal’s en-suite bathroom where a wide bath waits. The water is only just warm enough to stave off goosebumps, and he washes with perfunctory determination. Pulling himself out of the tub presents too much of a mental challenge, never mind a physical one, and he resorts to calling Hannibal back in to help.

Again, it should be distressing, but he’s too tired to care, and the stoicism with which Hannibal’s wraps him in a towel normalises it. He’s supported back to his room, where the bronze sheets have changed to a pale blue and Hannibal helps him into a set of unfamiliar viridian pyjamas before guiding him into bed.

He accepts more pills, and is asleep again before Hannibal has left the room. 

Deep in the cavernous night, where silence has occupied every corner and the house, Will’s eyes peel open again. There’s not much light to be had, a few blue moonbeams skirting the edges of the curtains, just enough to outline the shapes in the room. One shape doesn’t fit with his memory of the space; vertical, freestanding by the window.

The curtains twitch, and his pulse jumps as he sees the plaid shirt shot full of holes, the dark stain dried down the front. Milky eyes regard him from below a receding hairline.

“Thought I’d seen the last of you.” He mutters, waiting for his heart rate to slow again.

Hobbs smiles, drifting closer, saying nothing.

“Guess encephalitis and crazy aren’t mutually exclusive. Or maybe you’re just some lingering brain damage.” Will rubs his nose as he chooses his words, “Either way would you kindly fuck off?”

“Who are you talking to?” Loumalous grumbles at the foot of the bed.  
“Go back to sleep Louma, it’s just shadows and dust.”

“Wh’r’ever.” She grunts, and he hears her adjust herself on her cushion. Hobbs has decided to take a seat in the armchair, and Will glares at him.

“Listen, I don’t want to keep going in circles here. Whatever you wanted me to ‘see’, I’m not biting, okay? I already ‘see’ too much.”

“You’ve already seen.” Hobbs’ voice is a whisper. “You already want.”

Will’s gaze falters, confusion tugging at his eyebrows; Hobbs never speaks to him beyond repeating his final word.

“I don’t want.” He whispers, then more forcefully, “I don’t want. I can imagine the wanting; it’s not the same.”

“You want,” Hobbs insists through the smug tilt of his blanched lips. “If you didn’t, it wouldn’t be so hard.”

Will wonders if perhaps, all this time, the encephalitis has been doing him a favour and keeping his Hobbs demon silent. If he’s going to be this chatty from now on he may have to consider a relapse. He doesn’t need to be speaking to this ghost. He can just ignore Hobbs until he goes away. He rolls over and stares at the far wall.

The silence in the house is so profound that it takes on a malignant quality and he finds his back muscles tensing. After an uncomfortable moment, Will rolls back to find Hobbs sitting exactly as he had left him: head tilted slightly, waiting and expectant.

“Alright fine,” he hisses. “Maybe a part of me does ‘want’. But a bigger part of me wants to be a decent fucking human being.”

The smile stretches on Hobbs’ face, victorious.

The next day follows a similar pattern of sleep with short interludes of waking. Hannibal is careful not to overtax him. The clinical gloves make a reappearance, and Hannibal gives him a more detailed physical exam; thermometer in his ear, a light in his eyes, blunt cold metal pressed to his chest, “Breathe in for me please. Thank you. And out…” He taps notes into his tablet, which will be forwarded to his doctors.

Garret Jacob Hobbs visits him again that night, and the night after, and the night after that. Some nights they speak, some nights they scrutinise each other in silence. He becomes almost grateful for the recurring vigils, using them to mark the turning of a new day, where otherwise Hannibal’s ministrations might have him lose track of time altogether.

He doesn’t tell Hannibal about his nightly visitations, and Lou never asks about them.

At some point, the spider and its web disappeared. Hannibal must have removed it, but he doesn't remember it happening; no ladders or feather dusters. He sort of misses the company, and hopes Hannibal didn't kill it.

Jack comes to visit, and Will pretends to be more disorientated than he feels. He soothes his guilt by assuring himself it’s a concession Louma’s grudge; a topic they still haven’t broached.

Alana and Abigail visit together, two brunettes with big blue eyes; one who pities him, one who doesn’t trust him. With Alana there he doesn’t feel he can talk properly to Abigail, and vice-versa. There are too many facets of himself, he can't remember which ones overlap between these two.

The Slow Loris remains fixed to the scarf around Abigail’s neck, as though helping her keep it fixed in place. Lou maintains an air of drowsy cordiality towards both visiting daemons, Angus unnecessarily warm in his initial approach, now keeps Alana's ankle boots company, where they're crossed awkwardly eat the base of the arm chair. Alana keeps the tone light and talks about his dogs, and he is genuinely grateful for that much at least. He doesn’t fight the sleep when it comes for him, and relief washes through him when he hears them tiptoe from the room.

On the sixth night, his eyes seek out the shadow by the window, and he even smiles when Hobbs steps forward. “Beginning to think you really are a ghost.” Will murmurs. “More reliable than my usual hallucinations.”

Garret’s pale lips part into a smile. He never speaks above a whisper, but then, Will only ever heard him whisper in life. “Making you my unfinished business.”

“And you’d finally leave me alone if I, what? Kill someone?” His eyes flick down to the stiff dark stain caking the front of Hobbs’ shirt. “Someone else,” he amends.

The smile on Hobbs’ face doesn’t slide a fraction, and Will thinks his hallucination may have borrowed some of its mannerisms from Hannibal. The impression fades when Garret’s maggot-pale fingers reach up to explore the bullet holes in his chest. “What did it feel like when you shot me?”

Will shouldn’t be humouring this ghoul, but he recalls the stirring of adrenaline in his gut when lifting the gun, squeezing the trigger as Hobbs' knife slid across Abigail’s neck. “Resolved. Justified.”

“Describe it.”

A faded imitation plumes through him, iniquitously alluring in sensation. Deep down, in a region beyond approved cartography, he worries that the impressions might fade completely if he remembers them too many times, leaving him with a homeopathic dilution that bears no resemblance to the original flavour. But surely that would be for the best?

“This strength flowed into me, like liquid steel.” He parts his lips slightly, more aware of the tips of his teeth, “A heat too, as though I was channelling something primal, and raw, and _right_.” He swallows, wincing as he remembers the rest. “It left me the moment you dropped, scared me too. Then you were speaking to me, like you knew what we shared, and that scared me too.”

“So much fear. Why all the fear?”

Indignation rages, but starts sounding more like a spoiled child. _Because, obviously, murder!_ But volume and emotion doesn’t make a point; they're the last defence once logic has failed. _So answer the question like it’s an intellectual exercise_. “Once I let go, I don’t know how far I’ll fall. I don’t want to wake up to find myself in a mental institute having lost my mind and killed people.”

“Is it killing you fear, or losing your mind?”

Will sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and worries at it. “Killing would be a sign I’d lost my mind.”

“Murder isn’t synonymous with madness.”

“Well good. Because talking to you suggests I’m already mad.” Will closes his eyes then, and wills the hallucination away. When he opens his eyes again, he is alone.

“I’ve been having nightly episodes.” Will informs Hannibal, as he tries not to squirm with the thermometer in his ear. He’s been here a week, and hasn’t clawed his own or anyone else’s eyes out yet. Which makes this officially a success.

The bed sheets are maroon today, matching Hannibal and Jevgēņjia’s eyes. Will is wearing another pair of pyjamas provided by his host, soft and dark blue, with small rounded white buttons that fascinate his fingers.

“Episodes?”

Sitting upright has become a less nauseating experience, and he braces himself back against the pillows as he confesses, “Waking dreams, talking with Garret Jacob Hobbs.”

Hannibal frowns, keeping the thermometer steady. “Nightly for how long?”

“Since I got here.”

The frown stays where it is, and taut planes of disapproval augment Hannibal’s features. “I asked if you were still experiencing any symptoms; you told me you were not. It will be difficult to provide adequate care for you if you’re not honest about your recovery.”

Will’s eyelids stutter at the reproof, and he pushes out his jaw. “I’m telling you now.”

The thermometer beeps, and Hannibal casually breaks eye contact to check its reading. “Well. Your temperature is still acceptable.”

He breathes out through his nose and withdraws to the armchair, crossing his legs in his typical fashion. The air where he had been sitting cools quickly. “Louma,” he asks Will’s daemon, curled with Jia lying regally at her side, “have you been aware of these hallucinations?”

“No.” Her black eyes swivel between Hannibal and Will, “If we’re both asleep we share dreams. But we don’t always sleep at the same time. So…” She shrugs.

Hannibal runs his thumbnail along his lower lip. Will’s eyes follow the motion with abstract fascination, but the curved lips have more for him, and less pleasant; “The swelling your brain endured when your encephalitis was at its peak may leave lingering neurological effects. Your perception, reaction time, reasoning and language skills all seem to be normal. Your heart rate and pallor are healthier, your stamina is increasing; but your sleep is still disrupted.”

Frustration simmers in Will’s muscles, “That’s all I’m doing. Sleeping.”

A subtle sine wave moves Hannibal’s body, angling him slightly closer. “Feeling the lack of stimulation is an excellent sign. If you carry on like this with no setbacks, we can begin some light physiotherapy and get you moving around the house a little. A change from these four walls will no doubt do you good."

The idea of leaving the bed for more than lukewarm baths has the same effect as opening a window, immediately making the room less oppressive.

“As for mental stimulation,” Hannibal continues thoughtfully, “how do you feel about chess?”

“Chess.” Will mulls the concept. “Mainly played backgammon with my dad.”

This is met with an appreciative nod. “A Mesopotamian game, older than the Christian god, one which requires both skill and luck. However, chess appeals to me, over games such as backgammon, because there is no chance involved. Exclusively a battle of strategy and wits, two minds with even resources at their disposals.” 

A hunger seeps through the bright lenses of his eyes, and Will feels a heat shoot through him that is not his own. He so rarely catches emotion from the other man; his control must have slipped momentarily, betraying how fervently Hannibal wants an opponent who matches him. Noticing the gage of his intensity jump too far, Hannibal’s tongue touches his bottom lip with a slight flicker, and he breaks eye contact. Then, deciding to embrace the slip, adds, “It has the added advantage that it can be placed aside for periods of time, should a player grow tired.”

A smile pulls at Will’s lips, “Sounds good.” He’ll likely be repeatedly trounced, but it’s a small way to repay the man for his generosity.

Hannibal checks his watch with a carefully corralled smile of his own. “Excellent. I should start to prepare dinner, but once it’s roasting I’ll have a little time, if you like?”

With a nod from Will, he peels off his gloves and drops them into the waste paper basket. Jia rises with a playful nip at Loumalous’ ear. Lou sends her a sly hyaenidae smile, but her responses seem more subdued today.

“I’ll bring you some tea before I start,” Hannibal promises on his way out of the room.

Chess. Loumalous and he had talked about chess recently, in relation to the Ripper.

_So_? He tilts his head to look at Lou. Her eyes are closed, resting on her forepaws, looking innocent as the day she settled in her hyena form, which is to say, not very.

They’ve been getting along better, and it’s been a relief; but these conversations with Hobbs have highlighted the ‘dissonance’ between them, as Lou had put it; it’s not a surface level issue. The issue, the one they don’t acknowledge, is that she embraces the images and thoughts that torment him, delights in them. Not all, perhaps; some aspects of certain killers get stuck in her maw, some take longer to break down than others, but her sturdier stomach digests most of the ideas just fine.

Like any good scavenger, she can subsist fine on the leftovers they encounter, and this civilised savannah they occupy is saturated with carrion; has been his whole life. From the media, on the police force, inside course materials and forensic classes, and now, in the field. It satisfies something in her, and therefore something in him. Acknowledging that is hard enough, but he could only wish the shame could be capped there.

Contrary to popular belief, hyenas aren’t exclusively scavengers, and there have been times she would hunt on her own too. There are times when all it would take is his agreement.

When hyena do hunt, their success rate outcompetes other predators.

He had told himself he joined the police, the FBI, to protect people from that horror, but it breathes in him now. A hundred tiny grooves scored into his bones, and each time they fantasise, a new one nicks into place.

They’re tainted.

Better not to acknowledge it, better to push those urges away. He has to keep his distance from them, and if that means keeping his distance from Loumalous too… well, at least Lou has never acted on any of her desires.

“Uuuh.” She grumbles. “You’re doing it again. I never noticed that it gave me a headache until you stopped.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She puts her head back down. “I hoped you were done with thinking about me like that, is all.”

“Sorry. It’s just… these night time chats with Hobbs, you’re _really_ not aware of any of them?”

She sighs. “Not really. You seem restless is all.”

“Well, it’s like he’s trying to make me see things the way you do, and it’s reminding me why we’re, um, estranged.”

“Hmph,” she straightens and looks at him critically. “At least you’re letting someone fight my battles for me.” A belligerent glint comes to guard her hardening eyes. “You know, I’ve never pushed you to kill anyone, killing Hobbs was traumatic for me too. But... sometimes it _would_ be satisfying to feel their vertebrae shatter in your teeth. You agree with me, Chilton for example, I know you agree he wastes oxygen. You just hate having to be the ‘responsible’ one.”

“I don’t want to prove everyone right.”

“They’re not right. They don’t understand us.”

“Stop it. I don’t want to hear this.”

“No. Talk to me, I’m sick of this. Snivelling about at your ankles the whole time, pushing down thoughts you won't approve of, feeling like shit because you won’t accept me. Don’t just shut down when you can’t find the logic to back up your neuroses.”

He gapes at her. “My neuroses? Morality is not a neuroses,” he growls, “don’t start trying to psychoanalyse me.”

“What? Gonna ‘Hulk’ out on me are you? Ooh, I’m scared. I _am_ you, dimwit, so hate me all you want but you can’t swap me out for a squeaky clean Disney soul. Now quit crying about it, and accept that really, deep down, all you want is to slide your hands inside some bastard’s ribcage and tear out their steaming lungs.”

A carrion flavour floods his mouth again, only this time it tastes of sweet metallic meat, succulent and fresh, and his teeth ache for it. He closes his eyes, so he can’t see the triumph in Loumalous’ eyes as she feels confirmation in their bond. “I don’t…” He trails off. He’s said it all before.

“You don’t want to want it. I know.”

He twists the blanket in his fists, wringing it for some comfort it couldn't provide. “What do you expect us to do? Sneak around in the middle of the night, stalking people and disposing of bodies? Judge, jury and executioner?” He shakes his head. “We can’t. And we shouldn’t be talking about this here. Hannibal could come back at any moment.”

“I’m not an idiot. I don’t expect you to put on a mask and go vigilante, or pick up a chainsaw and go berserk. But if you stop pushing it, and me, away, maybe we can find some middle ground.”

“There’s no middle ground with murder," he hisses, clapping his hands over his eyes. "I can’t be having this conversation. The answer is no, the answer will always be no. Only in the line of duty.”

His daemon sighs, and when she speaks, the hostility has retreated. In its place is something more insidious. “Most absolutes are logical fallacies.” Loumalous’ voice trickles through the air like honey; he’s forgotten how lulling her voice can be. “Everything’s contextual. Clinging to binary concepts is a luxury of the idealistic. Are we idealistic, Will?”

“No,” his voice is nearly a whine, “but-”

“But you don’t trust me. You think we’ll start savaging people like a rabid animal if you don’t keep me under your boot.”

“Lou, I’m serious. Please. I can’t to listen to this anymore.”

Before she can answer, a light knock at the door stills them both. “Yes?” Will blurts, gratitude shamelessly thrown out with the word.

Hannibal opens the door and takes a step into the room, a cup steaming in his hand. “Is everything alright?”

“Mm-hmm. Fine.” Will asserts, desperate and convincing nobody.

Politely moving on, Hannibal presents the china cup. “Silver needle tea-”, he freezes, eyes widening, and heat floods Will stomach as Lou sinks her teeth into the ruff of Jevgēņjia’s neck and throws her bodily to the floor. The tea shakes in Hannibal’s hand, and Will stares with a slack jaw as Loumalous pins Jia beneath her and bites her again, Jia snapping and twisting but fully engaged.

Hannibal places the cup on the nearest surface as the daemons struggle against each other, shaking stray droplets off his hand, attention flicking rapidly back and forth between Will and the contest.

Will is sick of wanting things that he shouldn’t have, of being the only obstacle to his desires. “Come here,” he doesn’t recognise the authority in his own voice, but Lou is winning the battle for dominance, and Hannibal moves to obey. Maybe he wouldn’t have resisted anyway.

~

He stops by the bed, and never has his expressionless face looked more pliable, his eyes burning not with resentment over the order, but with restraint.

“Take off your jacket.”

His instructions are followed without hesitation. Will reaches out and grabs the floating tip of the tie. Five weeks in bed haven’t completely atrophied his muscles, and he employs them now, sliding lower in the bed, pulling Hannibal down towards him.

“Climb up here.” Being led by the necktie leaves Hannibal with little choice on how to do so, and he is straddling Will’s hips when Will jerks the tie down again and brings their mouths together. The lips are willing, and he feels Hannibal take a greedy draught of air as his nose presses to Will’s face.  


Fingers find their way to the back of Will’s skull and pull his head up from the slumped pillows, lifting him up to be crushed by a wave of possession as Hannibal licks into his mouth. The kiss turns filthy, tongues sliding against each other and teeth catching and pulling at lips.

Blood floods to thicken his cock, and Will’s hands abandon the tie in favour of raking over Hannibal’s back. He marvels at the strength there, rucking up the shirt to feel smooth hot skin, digging his nails in and wanting to rip through to the muscle.

“Flesh, give me your flesh.” He groans, and Hannibal presses him back down against the mattress, before casting the shirt away. Returning his hands to Will, Hannibal quickly unbuttons the nightshirt, hands stretching out across his uncovered torso with reverence. Skin on skin - no longer those cursed gloves - but warm and textured and real.

A moment to admire the toned body above him, and then Will surges up and catches Hannibal in another kiss, returned readily, ravenously. Will’s hands meet at Hannibal’s belt, and the heel of his hand brushes against a hard line below the band of his trousers. He purrs and wraps his fingers around it as best he can, forgetting the cold metal buckle for the responsive warmth through the fabric.

“Will…” Hannibal breathes, and Will squeezes tighter, licking the stubble on Hannibal’s jaw.

“You better be preparing to whisper sweet nothings to me; I’m not about to start convincing you this is a good idea.” Whatever Hannibal had been about to say, he thinks better of it, using his tongue to map Will’s neck.

Returning to the challenge of the belt buckle, Will wrestles it loose and goes straight for the buttons on Hannibal’s suit pants, wanting more than the obscure outline of his desire. They part, and Will lowers the band of Hannibal’s trousers and briefs, and sliding them down to bare the dome of his ass and the keen length of his erection. It’s a startling sight. Wanting a man is a first, wanting anyone this badly is a first; saliva pools beneath his tongue.

Twisting gracefully to one side, Hannibal pulls his trousers off in a smooth motion, then turns to efficiently divest Will of his pyjama pants. His freed cock reaches up toward Hannibal, who leans in to lap at it briefly, before raising his eyes to Will, sucking two of his fingers messily and reaching behind himself.

Will’s jaw slackens as he realises what Hannibal is preparing for, anticipation raking through him and swelling him further. Hannibal’s smile could cut steel, and he lowers his mouth to suck white-hot pleasure down Will’s length. Will slaps the mattress, “Oh- god.”

He barely stays afloat as waves of pressure undulate around him, the rub of tongue inside the hollowed cheeks accompanied by the most disgraceful sounds to ever reach his ears. It makes him whine, when he thinks of the prim mouth making those noises.

The furnace of Hannibal’s mouth leaves him abruptly, and Hannibal spits neatly into his hand, before returning it behind his back.

“No lube?”

“None within reach,” his voice is husky, chin already glossy with saliva, his lips return to Will’s cock, sliding right down his shaft. A guttural groan tears itself from Will’s lungs as Hannibal’s throat welcomes him into its depth, and his hand comes to grip Hannibal’s hair. He doesn’t want to come yet, but it’s been a long time, and the debauched image of Hannibal crouched over him, mouth wide, eyes exultant… calmly opening himself to take Will… the precipice is too close.

He tugs up on Hannibal’s head, who begrudgingly cedes ownership of Will’s erection. His eyes are livid, glaring from beneath mussed hair. “Come here.” Will commands, and Hannibal lunges forward, hot and wet and tasting of salt.

Moving to straddle him again, Hannibal wedges one of Will's forearms between his knee and Will’s hip, helping to stretch his thighs wider. Will’s other hand moves to intercept Hannibal's protruding length, but his wrist is seized and held aside. Will gapes up at him, incredulity and excitement coiling through him like loops of electrified wire.

With his remaining hand, Hannibal steadies Will's cock beneath him and slowly sinks down. Will curses, the cry tailing off into shuddered keening as Hannibal’s flesh parts to accept him, to embrace him, to grip him and wrap him in shimmering nebulous heat that radiates through is body.

“Hannibal.” He breathes, sliding further in; Hannibal is so tight around him, it feels like he’s expanding to fill him. He digs his heels into the mattress, jaws clenched, watching a perfect lip pinch between sharp teeth. Hannibal slowly submits to gravity, and takes the last inch of Will’s length.

They take a moment to pant, Will’s pulse throbbing inside the sheath of Hannibal’s body. Hannibal’s looks down at Will with his chin held high, visibly mastering his breathing, broad chest rising and falling with a steadying rhythm.

Will may have started this, but he looks up at Hannibal with awe as he starts to move. The friction is glorious, bordering on ludicrous. His jaw works as he softly chews up curse words into a string of nonsense. Hannibal experiments with a delicious roll of his hips, biting off a cry as he locates his prostate with Will’s cockhead. The tempo picks up then, Will hardly able to recognise Hannibal as he rears over him with dark covetous eyes, a slant between a smile and a snarl across his mouth.

“Jesus, Hannibal, I can’t– ”

“It’s okay, Will.” Hannibal’s free hand, the one that isn’t restraining Will’s wrist, comes up to press his thumb against Will’s bottom lip. He slows briefly, grinding himself more methodically down, “I want you to come.” He leans back and holds that teasing pace for a moment, in direct contradiction of his words, and Will whimpers. He rips his partially crushed hand hand free from his side, and uses what grip strength remains to wrap it around Hannibal’s shaft and stroke his thumb along a bundle of nerves.

Hannibal tilts his head back with a cry, exposing his neck to the ceiling and spilling warmth across their stomachs. He strokes him Hannibal through the orgasm as it shudders inside him, tightening the passage around Will’s buried flesh, as though trying to hold him there. He feels consumed by the promise of heat and pressure, the loosed voice of Hannibal's pleasure echoing in Will's ears, and he lets go with a ragged cry, washing away in a bright flood of bliss.

The wave carries him in a turbulent tumble, disorientating and overwhelming. For a moment, in the rushing tide, he and his animal soul are of one mind, and sated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem *blush* things escalated quickly! 
> 
> I was torn, was it too soon to have them satisfy some of that carnal attraction? I thought it might be.  
> These two though... they left me little choice but to just go whole hog. Hannibal had no doubt been fantasising about mounting his patient all week, and let's be honest, Will's repression has been impatiently fraying for a while now.
> 
> A little information on how hyenas are badass:  
> https://www.nationalgeographic.co.uk/animals/2019/06/hyenas-have-bad-rap-theyre-africas-most-successful-predator
> 
> I hope you think Lou's character development is acceptable. I left quite a bit unsaid in the first chapters, but... mental health is like tidying. Things often have to get messier before they get neater again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday gentlefolks! 
> 
> Another offering for your entertainment (I hope!) - this chapter I'm breaking precedent and giving you a little of Hannibal's POV too. Hopefully that won't be too jarring, but what with Will being bed-ridden so long, I thought you guys might want out of the guest room ;)

**Chapter 6**

Hobbs doesn’t come that night, with Hannibal asleep in the bed next to him. His bedfellow sleeps on his front, head angled towards Will, hair falling across his eyes and the line of his nose, the rest of his face obscured in the pillow. Will wonders how he can breathe like that, and finds himself smiling as he sees dreams flickering beneath Hannibal’s eyelids.

He gets flashes from earlier, Hannibal above him, obeying his instructions while simultaneously taking control. The images have his body responding beneath the sheets. He really doesn’t want to be struggling with that at this hour, so he closes his eyes to count back from twenty, rolling away to put his back to Hannibal.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re on the window where Hobbs should be standing. Relief and disappointment mixing in his gut when he still doesn’t manifest. Without his ghost for conversation, other worries begin to seep onto the back of his tongue; bringing the flavour of off-milk and burnt biscuits.

What will it be like, recuperating under Hannibal’s care with this added dynamic? The sex had been… more than he’d expected… exactly what he’d needed… amazing; exhausting. Hannibal washing and feeding him afterwards had been surreal and still kind of erotic. But how long before it became claustrophobic?

He should have kept it in his pants. Why the hell did Lou have to get him all twisted up thinking about things he shouldn’t want? Using Hannibal to avoid an argument with himself had to be the dumbest thing he’d done in a long time. Ok, true, Hannibal had wasted no time opening himself up and taking Will into his body… but that was _after_ Lou had effectively assaulted Jia and rational thought left the building.

Weight shifts on the bed behind him and he tenses. An arm semi-consciously drapes over him and pulls him back against a broad span of chest. He feels a deep inhale against the back of his head, and then the arm goes limp as Hannibal slips back asleep. 

Warmth and light bloom in Will’s chest, an accelerated snapshot of spring; budding petals unfurling and thickening in near fractal beauty. He presses his lips together, trying to enjoy it, trying to wait out the flood of endorphins, willing himself to calm, to relax.

He remembers now how happiness hurts, more acute even than loneliness - this is why he avoided it for so long. Hannibal rests against him like a blade. He wants to pull him inside of himself, wants him to let him cut in, but it’s just as masochistic as if the metaphor were truth. To pull Hannibal closer would be wounding himself. The wound wouldn’t be so bad while the knife was still inside, but when the knife pulls out, that’s when the blood will really flow.

And Hannibal would leave. However graciously he ignores the stereotype of his hyena daemon, the truth is that the trope is right; deep down, acknowledged or not, acted on or not, Will has the soul of a killer.

The clack of nails on the floorboards brings his eyelids up, and a moment later he finds the black tip of Jevgēņjia’s nose before his own. He refocuses on her eyes, shadowed in the low light, but which still seem to scour a passage into him. He can almost read words in them, a foreign language, but an intimate message. She slides her snout closer over the mattress, and brings the cold tip of her nose into contact with his own.

A current surges between them and Will freezes, breath stilling, eyes wide. His chest fills with xenogenous emotion, flooding his system and straining against his ribs, beautiful and invasive and intimate. He hears his pulse jump, pulsing against the close confines of his cochlea. Jia blinks at him slowly, then pulls back, the edges of her canine-like features pulling up with their shared secret.

A moment later, she’s gone from view, and he hears - and feels - her settling back down next to Lou.

The sensation swirls in him, iridescent and effervescent. He can see why Loumalous is so taken with Jia – the adamantine conviction with which she claims them both is unfathomable to Will. He doesn’t blame Lou for not wanting to share it with Will initially, even now a part of his mind is rearing up to say “ _but it can’t last…”_

He slaps the thought aside and clutches instead to the impressions left by Hannibal's daemon, wraps himself in them and uses them to drift to sleep.

_Another soul, he was touched by another soul…_

* * *

Interlude: Hannibal

Dawn’s light casts the curtains in inverse shadow, but Hannibal forsakes their luminescence for the dark ringlets that tease his eyelids. Will smells less piquant without his fever, yet still manages to completely entrap his attention. He spends time building associations with the scents, assigning them colours and consistencies and weaving them into the tapestries of his memory palace.

Having finally achieved proximity with the flighty creature, he fights an unaccustomed reluctance to stir from the sheets. The warm body pressed against his own contains mesmerising juxtapositions, and has already compromised him in ways he had believed impossible. Surrendering to an idle morning of – ye gods – _cuddling_ has never held the slightest appeal before. But here, with Will’s supple form tucked against the contours of his own, he feels the twin desires to protect and to rend. Though, as he had tried to explain to Jevgēņjia, the two are not mutually exclusive, and as long as the exploratory flaying of Will genuinely benefits him, his daemon should acquiesce.

Still, he must hand it to the daemons. As contrary as their ideas can be, following their lead has brought unanticipated delights. This bizarre predicament, for example; a part of him rails against it, while another part would suspend the moment in time, fix his senses on the feast before him and linger in perpetuity.

With the subtlest of movements, barely shifting in microns, he samples the texture of the soft curls against his face, letting them slide against nerve-endings thrown wide to receive as much sensory information as possible. Alas, there are schedules that must be adhered to, and certain responsibilities are languishing while he indulges in tactile hedonism.

Reaching the end of his self-leniency, he forces himself to relinquish his prize and expose himself to cold empty air. Jevgēņjia dolefully peels away from Loumalous, the hyena stirring briefly then spreading into the heated area vacated by the African wild dog. Hannibal pulls on his robe and returns to his own rooms for a quick shower, dressing in one of his thinner and less ostentatious suits.

His daemon keeps her own council until Hannibal has cooked two servings of breakfast and eaten his own. She tends not to speak a great deal when he’s cooking, an exercise which usually lifts both their spirits, and works best when he’s fully engaged. This morning, however, their bond suggests she is not buoyed, but meditative.

Only when he has locked the pantry door and lifted the basement hatch does she speak. “This will complicate things.”

Hannibal lifts his eyes from the dark well of the stairs to meet her gaze.

“I can’t imagine you regret it?”

“Not for a moment. But the betrayal will feel all the greater to him now.”

He drops his gaze to the tray in his hands, the protein scramble already past its best from being kept warm in the oven, cooling fast in the upward draft of cold air from below.

“The entire endeavour has required contortionate adaptability from the start. And helping Loumalous was never going to be an entirely pleasant experience for Will.” He pauses as his daemon snorts and raises an eyebrow at her. “We’ve discussed this, at length. Acute versus chronic pain, my plan would have been faster and more effective, this revised programme will take more time. More time means more complications.”

“Your plan put them both in danger.”

Hannibal thins his lips slightly, then sluices himself clean with a wave of resignation and affection for his daemon. “You’re right of course. As to this new adjustment, I think establishing greater intimacy will make it easier for Will to accept Louma in the long run. Though his feelings towards me will be the worse for it, when the time comes.”

She regards him with an aloofness that, briefly, recalls to him the way his mother’s Afghan Hound daemon would consider the servants. “As long as you’re prepared to suffer too.”

“It's unavoidable. Though I will – as always – find some pleasure in your happiness my dear, and I daresay you will have much to be jubilant of. Now, I fear we are about to offer our guest a very substandard meal, but I would hate to have the eggs congeal completely. May we?”

The African hunting dog gives a courtly dip of one foreleg, and Hannibal descends into the bowels of the building.

Despite Hannibal’s best efforts, Sutcliffe has rapidly lost weight. A lot of energy is going into healing his wounds of course, but the man’s appetite leaves a lot to be desired. He had considered force-feeding the man, but in truth, Donald’s meat was rather pedestrian, and with Will to tend to, devoting the time to adjust his flavour failed the cost-benefit analysis.

Callianta, the albatross daemon, has her beak wired shut, and is pinned to the wall behind Sutcliffe’s gurney, though he wasn’t crude enough to touch her with bare hands, of course. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner had come up too often around Sutcliffe for him to consider using the allusion now; this display is purely for his own fascination. Her great white wingspan, lined with black feathers, stretches nearly eleven feet of the wall. He does not generally bother much with daemons, but his cages might not hold her, and she is a lovely specimen. One he will not be able to admire once the neurologist is dead.

Dropping his gaze to Sutcliffe’s face, he sees the previous day’s dejection and submission has been replaced by a sullen fury - much more entertaining. Sutcliffe is strapped from forehead to ankles, and Hannibal lays down the tray before raises the position of the gurney. Removing the gag, he is met with the foul smell of stale saliva, and he cleans Sutcliffe’s face before offering out a glass with a straw.

Once his thirst has been assuaged, he meets Hannibal’s eyes again, and the defiance twangs an approving chord in Hannibal’s chest. The note fades quickly though, once Donald asks, “How’s our patient?”

“Kind of you to think of him, especially given your own deteriorating condition. He is improving rapidly. Quite lively, in short bursts. His brain function does not seem permanently affected. For which you should be grateful.”

“I’d be worried about his reasoning skills if he’s still voluntarily your patient.”

“Come, Donald. You do yourself a disservice; it took you decades to learn the truth of me. I came to your wedding.”

“And you’ll come to my funeral, no doubt.”

“Certainly. I couldn’t miss accompanying your empty casket on its sombre procession. Now, the meal I prepared for you has cooled somewhat, but we must try and keep your strength up. You have another surgery tomorrow.”

His teeth grind together, eyes shining with unshed tears. “What are you taking this time?”

Hannibal lifts a finger and tilts his head, adopting an expression that requests Sutcliffe wait patiently a moment. He slips through the parted plastic curtains, and crosses to a steel workbench, beneath which are drawers that house trays of different instruments. Unerringly locating the correct tray, Hannibal returns to Sutcliffe’s makeshift suite, and sets the container onto the trolley for Sutcliffe to see. The neurologist’s nostrils pinch, mouth flattening at the sight of circular bone saws.

“I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of hemispherectomies. I sat in on one once, as a medical student, but was not able to follow the patient’s recovery. Even after all my years as a medical doctor, it still seems miraculous to me that a person could survive, thrive even, with only half a brain.” The tears are spilling now, hatred in the tawny eyes. Hannibal’s gaze drifts up from Sutcliffe’s, to where the thick leather band obscures his forehead.

“With any luck, you’ll be fully conscious again after a few days, though some of your functions will be compromised. Unfortunately, I will have to sedate you for the procedure itself, or the shock may kill you before I have a chance to see how you are affected. I wonder if it will feel more spacious in your skull. Roomy.” He moves the word around in his teeth.

Hannibal chooses this moment to pick up the plate and collect a measured spoonful, bringing both towards the immobilised guest. To his gratification, Sutcliffe accepts the mouthful of egg and sausage, even likely knowing the sausage was made from a section of his own large intestine, stuffed with his calf. It’s hard for him, his sinuses had flooded with mucous as his eyes spilled their tears, and Hannibal allows him brief moment to catch his breath while taking full advantage of his obedience.

When he is finished, Hannibal brings the straw back to Sutcliffe’s mouth and lets him cleanse his pallet with water, allowing him a moment to recoup, a reward for good behaviour.

“I don’t understand,” he eventually whispers. “You suggested the study, like bait, like a trick, then whipped it away. I thought it was a sick game to you. Why do you care so much? All I did to him was what you suggested we do together.”

Hannibal glances at Jia and she levels an arch glare at him. “You’re not entirely incorrect. What differs are our motives, though when encouraging you to go for the ploy, I used arguments tailored to your particular brand of narcissism.”

“What… motives… could possibly…?” Sutcliffe sputters.

“I want him as malleable as possible for the greater access it gives me when treating his psychological issues. He won’t acknowledge fundamental aspects of himself, but with the right combination of stimuli and medication, an accelerated route to radical self acceptance would have been possible.” Hannibal sighs, piqued again at the lost opportunity, while simultaneously relieved that Jia had presented this alternate option. “However, by you interfering as you did, and gifting his infection the opportunity to become resistance to the antivirals, that route is no longer open to me.”

Jevgēņjia clears her throat pointedly. Hannibal turns to look at her. “Everything alright, my dear?”

“This is not the only reason we’re not continuing down that ‘route’ though, is it, _dearest?_ ”

Genuine surprise has Hannibal twisting further on his small stool; it is impolite to bicker in front of guests. “I believe you know my mind on the matter, you wish to add something for Donald’s benefit?”

“I would like _you_ to elaborate for Dr Sutcliffe. It will be a good exercise for reinforcing the matter in physical structure of our brain, seeing as the concept is so novel for us.”

These past few months with Will Graham have been some of the most frustrating of his life. His daemon has only ever been an asset to him, from as far back as he can remember they had been of one mind and one heart. And now she had gifted her part of their heart to another, without affording him any say in the matter.

“Well, Donald. It would appear you are to be my confessor. Thankfully, I know you will guard these secrets to your deathbed.”

Hannibal stands up and stretches out his spine, he should be getting back to Will soon. The mundane tasks of changing the doctor’s IV and catheter bags keep his hands busy while he searches for the right words.

Jevgēņjia might be right; it is difficult to speak of what he feels, difficult to put language to it. He has transferred emotion onto paper with graphite and charcoal, filled the air with it as music, even pressed it into Will’s lips; but only the plagiarised words of others could stand worthy in the books he wants to write to the man. Words strung together by poets and playwrights and the literary greats, words that spoke about love.

His own love, if he must really constrain it within such a flat definition, defies his understanding, and therefore his ability to properly express it. It is refreshing and exhilarating to find something new that resists his comprehension. It is also infuriating, inconvenient, and, frankly, alarming.

With the technical aspects of Sutcliffe’s confinement seen to, he discards his gloves and sits back down. “I am prepared to hurt Will, for his greater benefit. But… his well-being has become more important to me than my own curiosity, and so I am pursuing a line of treatment that is… comparatively gentle.”

“Because…” Jevgēņjia prompts. He doesn’t turn to acknowledge her.

“Because I care for him.”

The compressed coals of Sutcliffe’s eyes, dark without hope, find some afterglow of a different emotion. “That seemed hard for you,” he sneers, “wonder what I would’ve found if I’d studied your brain. A desiccated husk where your ventromedial prefrontal cortex should have been?”

Affecting a dreamy smile, Hannibal leans in conspiratorially. “You know, I should rather like to see for myself if there were anything markedly different about my cortices, but I’ll not risk it. One cannot run an MRI scan on themselves, and you can never be too careful with doctors these days.”

Sutcliffe has no response to that. Hannibal swivels his head to engage Jevgēņjia. “Are you satisfied?”

“For now.” She responds, tartly, and he returns his attention to his prisoner. “While I have you here, I thought I might consult your expertise.” He leans in slightly. “I would like to be able to speak to you after your hemispherectomy, to establish how it feels. If I take the right side of your brain, it will compromise your attention and reasoning, but if I take the left side, it will likely affect your speech. Which side do you recommend, for the greatest success?” Sutcliffe’s mouth trembles, his glower filling with tears again.

Hannibal stands and forces the gag back into his mouth. “Give it some thought, I’ll leave the decision up to you.”

* * *

_The meat tears, warm between their teeth. The blood courses down their throat, burning hot. The bones crunch, resistance a satisfying challenge that properly tests their jaws, and the marrow within is sweet and soft and yielding to the tongue._

Will wakes to the door opening, briefly alarmed by the notion it might not be Hannibal, because Hannibal is surely behind him in the bed, but no, that’s Hannibal in the doorway, and the weight against his back is… Loumalous?

She lifts her head and regards him opaquely, neither apologetic nor affectionate, and he feels her carefully mute their connection. He frowns at her, then remembers to smile, resulting in a puzzled expression that has Lou huffing a husky laugh and slipping off the bed.

Hannibal, rosewood tray in hand, has a twist to his lips that suggests he is actively fighting a smirk. Will’s bid to return to full consciousness is still in its infancy, and it’s too early for him to really process any of this. More important is the smell that greets him when he sniffs dismissively at Hannibal’s levity.

Coffee.

He hasn’t had coffee in weeks. Months? Feels like years, and his mouth waters in anticipation.

“I get coffee? Really?”

That twist to his lips again; it sends a shiver of delight through Will. Hannibal, it seems, can barely contain himself this morning. It’s adorable.

“Yes, though you’ll have to drink more water to compensate. Which means more trips to the bathroom, but that will at least be beneficial for your physical recovery.”

Rolling his eyes, Will pushes himself up against the headboard. “Don’t spoil it with rules. Just give me the coffee.” He feels giddy in the anticipation of caffeine, a grin pulling at his lips. Is this him, acting like a spoiled child and teasing his host? Flirting?

Openly defying the demand, Hannibal reaches out and pulls Will forward by the back of his neck, bracing his head against his chest while he adjusts the pillows behind him. One thumb gently strokes his nape, at the hairline, sending shivers through his skin. Will’s smile widens. He is lain back against the plumped cushions with a fleeting tousle of his curls, and Hannibal steps away. Only when he has spread the curtains and flooded the room with rambunctious sunlight does he return to the bedside and present Will with the coveted coffee.

“Don’t drink it all at once.” He advises, with a crinkle at the edges of his eyes, and Will receives the cup and saucer with a transient association of Christmas morning, and marvels at how easy it is to be happy in this moment. _Don’t overthink it._

He inhales deeply from the brim of the cup and wants to swoon, because, of course, this isn’t just any coffee. The steam brings abstract exotic impressions to the screen of his imaginings. When the dark liquid finally spills over his tongue, smooth and bitter, it brings notes of dark chocolate and molasses, and an elusive edge of anise and clove.

He swallows his first mouthful with eyes sliding shut and a soft moan purring out through his throat. Looking up again, he sees Hannibal’s pupils have dilated. Will licks his lips teasingly.

“It’s nice to be able to drink on my own again.” He says, blinking lazily, taking another appreciative mouthful of coffee. “Though I do miss the delivery system we had worked out.”

“Would you like me to feed you your coffee?” Hannibal flutters his eyelashes playfully.

Will splutters, a blush rising to heat his cheeks. “No. No… just, maybe come up here and sit with me properly.” He rubs the sheets next to him.

Hannibal’s teeth show his amusement as he considers Will, giving way to regret. “Would that I could, but I’m afraid I have some appointments I must keep. I should only be a few hours.”

So much for claustrophobia; all Will wants is to have Hannibal wrap him in his arms again, and now he is leaving Will alone?

“Oh. Sure.”

“I have breakfast for you here: poached eggs over artichoke hearts and liver mushroom puree, topped with béchamel sauce. I had to compromise and use low-fat milk, as the meal is verging on too rich for someone in recovery.”

“I’m sure it’s still delicious.” Will assures him, fighting valiantly to supress the petulance that simmers in the wake of the mild rejection.

Hannibal appears pleased at his politeness, and brings the tray down to his lap, so that Will can rest his coffee on it and pick up the cutlery. He takes a mouthful, and – sure enough – the eggs and puree melt on his tongue, the segments of artichoke providing a hint of resistance for his teeth. Sounds of appreciation vibrate his lips.

“Do you have appointments tomorrow?” Will asks, pausing halfway through the dish to sip more coffee.

“Some chores I must see to, but nothing at a fixed time, why?”

“Wondering if you would take me to Wolf Trap? I know the dogs aren’t there, but I’ve been away for over a month, I just want to reassure myself the place is still standing.” It’s partially true. More than anything though, he just wants to stand in the clearing in the woods, and feel nature breathing around him. “I know it’s a long way-”

“Of course, Will. The distance is not so very great. I’m sure seeing the outside world will do you some good. You will find yourself extremely drained by the excursion though.”

“S’ok,” he shrugs, picking up his fork again, stirring the artichoke into the sauce and puree, before lifting it to his mouth. Hannibal’s eyes follow the movements of his fork to his mouth, lingering there while Will chews, the fire rekindling in their depths.

“Sure you don’t want to join me up here?” Will asks, pulling Hannibal’s gaze up from his lips.

Hannibal grins at having been so indiscreet. “More than I can say. But were I to give in to such temptation, I fear I might renege on my commitments. You would make a discourteous man of me, Will.”

From the floor, Will hears Jevgēņjia and Loumalous chuckle at Hannibal’s words. His own lips twitch, but he’s aware that an in-joke is shared between the three of them, and he wonders where he was when the salient references were exchanged. He finishes his breakfast, trying to fill the hollow space the missed joke leaves.

The tray is whisked away the moment he finishes, and Hannibal bends over Will with a sigh, as though lamenting his diminishing self-restraint. His lips meet Will's, moulding to them and sinking into them, and Will acquiesces with an upwelling of relief. His lips part, and his hands find the back of Hannibal's head to hold him firm while Hannibal's tongue makes exploratory forays into his mouth. Will could forsake oxygen, drown happily in the smell and taste and feel of the man.

Slowly, Hannibal's weight increases, pushing him down into the mattress, and Will's fingers tangle more deliberately in the thick strands of hair, seeking to cling with aerial roots; ivy coiling around a sturdy oak. Their breathing is becoming more laboured, more desperate as they starve each other of fresh air, desperation of a different kind overriding even this basic need. 

For a moment, Will can feel Hannibal giving in, submitting to the desire that churns through them both as a roiling flood - and then, with the kind of monastic restraint found only in saints and stoics - Hannibal pulls back. Will growls, but releases him, letting him stand up and away. His disappointment, and a small measure of indignant fury, somewhat mollified by the sight of the polished man looking thoroughly dishevelled. A quick glance down the length of him proves he is just as affected as Will by the experience. 

Will remains silent, watching as Hannibal smoothes back his hair and swipes a thumb under his bottom lip to clear his chin of their mingled saliva. When he speaks, his voice is gravelly with arousal, "I can see you're going to test me to the very limits of my control." He clears his throat, adjusting his clothes. "I was going to suggest that game of chess again, when I return, but frankly the idea has lost its appeal." 

"Good," Will replies, wriggling under the covers, squirming with the vanguard of pleasure that had begun to seep into his muscles. "Hurry back."

Hannibal's eyes are still dark, his posture suggesting he's still engaged in a coup for control of his body. "With hitherto unseen alacrity," he promises, then retrieves the tray and walks to the door. He hesitates at the frame, "Jevgēņjia, please, my dear."

The African hunting dog sighs with great forbearance, stands from where she is draped across Louma, and follows him from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed I don’t dwell long on the food... not really my go-to activity, and I’ll admit it’s the hardest part of the Hannibal universe for me to conjure! 
> 
> Thank you for all your support and lovely comments, I sure do appreciate you taking the time ^_^
> 
> Next chapter: Visiting Wolf Trap turns out to be significantly less cathartic than Will had hoped.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a day early because I abhor routine ;)

**Chapter 7**

Hobbs is stretched taut, suspended from the trees, and Will plays the blade along his flesh, dipping the cold metal in to test the conduits of his veins. Rivulets of blood slowly cut fine lines into the snow beneath, the crimson channels too hot and salty for the frozen water to withstand. The inexorable laws of nature facilitate the corruption of its pale purity; time would eventually strip it away, the iron-rich plasma of life only accelerates the inevitable dissolution of its fragile crystalline structure. 

The contrast of deep cerise spreading across pristine white stirs more of that primal hunger in Will, and he brings his eyes up to look at his prey. Pale eyes and a quiet smile urge him on. “ _See_?”

Will nods, he sees. He sees the beauty, the immediacy; the intimacy. He feels the ecstatic flutter of wings beating against his heart. The heightening of his senses feeds him with subtleties and nuances usually dimmed by the drudgery of routine, smothered by the intrusive thoughts of strangers. 

Repositioning the knife at Hobbs’ throat, tucking the point against his jugular vein, he cuts in, severs, blood oozing thickly, splattering the snow in thicker gouts. The blade moves deeper, its edge slicing into the carotid, and suddenly the blood roars up, spraying out of Hobbs with arterial force.

The dense liquid coats him, splashing fierce and hot and vibrant across his face and chest. It’s marking him too now, dissolving the pale innocence of his skin to reveal shining ebony flesh beneath, the monster that lurks within; his true self, buried all these years under tightly packed ice.

_Oh, it’s glorious_ … he opens his mouth to taste it, dropping the knife, fingers coming up to rub the warm blood into his cheeks, to spread it and speed the dissolution of brittle constricting morality…

… _No!_

Jolting awake, heart hammering, Hannibal behind him, he forces himself to remain still. He had hoped the nightmares would depart with the encephalitis, but the only improvement seems to be in reduced perspiration; the dreams are as relentless as ever.

Only in these moments does he yearn for it, safe behind the walls of his forts and not yet awake enough to apply the wisdom of avoidance. He aches for the freedom presented in the dreams, can feel the elation coiling in his muscles, the power rippling through him at the prospect of ripping off society’s straitjacket. But the fantasy can’t hold, he can’t let it happen.

There can be no decisive victory; to claim the liberation offered in those dreams is admitting defeat of a different kind, and he winces with the sting of recriminations.

Hannibal’s arm is draped over him, body pressed against his back. Will can still taste the coppery residue of blood, salivary glands already motivated in preparation for sinking teeth into fresh meat. With nowhere else to go, the exhilaration of the dream seems to be flowing south, flooding into his belly and from there, swelling his cock.

A chirrup of frustration sneaks passed his lips. He remembers how thwarted blood lust led to the first sexual episode with Hannibal; it really can’t be a healthy way to channel the urges.

The hand on his chest flattens out, Hannibal awake or waking. No doubt his elevated heart rate is loud against his breastplate, and to Will’s joy and dismay, the hand begins a languid descent. Hannibal’s palm pausing briefly for any sign of protest, before sliding lower over his boxers and finding the evidence of his thickening arousal. A pleased hum vibrates from Hannibal’s lips against the back of his neck, and he runs his fingers along its outline.

Okay, this isn’t healthy, but God, he’s only human. Will releases the moan building at the back of his throat, canting his hips and finding Hannibal’s erection with the cheeks of his ass.

The simmering arousal begins to boil properly now with the connotations of Hannibal pressed against him there. He fits the hardness against the cleft in his boxers, grinding with slow deliberation. The idea of him sliding into him from behind takes his breath away.

“Hannibal,” he sighs, as soft lips brush his nape. The hand exploring his length makes a detour under the waistband, and then Hannibal’s hot flesh grips his own, and Will bites his lip on another moan. He rocks his hips back to trap the weight of Hannibal’s cock, the skin of Will’s shaft sliding wonderfully beneath Hannibal’s fingers as he moves. Every part of his body crackles with looping strands of anticipation, from his toes through his knees and right the way up his spine to where Hannibal’s nuzzles against his hair.

“Hannibal,” he repeats, only this time there’s a question perched behind his lips.

“Mmm?” The grip on his cock tightens, pace teasing, and Will writhes, wavelets of building pleasure lapping through him, limbs filling with thick golden honey.

He turns his head so he can see part of Hannibal’s face, a single caramel eye gleaming mischievously at him. He’s not quite sure how to ask for this; Hannibal never asked, not with words anyway. “Do you want to… be inside me?”

If the jump in Hannibal’s cock is any indication, the answer is yes. The one visible eye burns, a kiln of insulated heat.

“Want to? Yes.” Without disrupting the languorous rhythm of his strokes, Hannibal pushes himself up on his other elbow to lean over Will’s upturned mouth. “And when you are fully recovered, should you still wish it, I would gladly sink into you, explore you fully, take you apart from the inside.” He descends to kiss him slowly, tongue a delicious substitute for the blood still ghosting his taste buds. He lifts up again, hair sweeping down in a soft curtain. “But for now… you will have to let me indulge you in other ways.” Nimble fingers cluster at Will’s glans, massaging around and under the bulb, rioting his nerves, but Will squirms petulantly back against Hannibal’s cock.

Tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, Hannibal groans, eyes flashing. He leans down and bites into Will’s lower lip, a sharp flash of pain preceding the spill of sweet metallic saline.

Hannibal’s hand returns to his shaft, exerting terrible, perfect, pressure, and the passage of his hand, slick now with Will’s precome, resumes a faster pace. Lapping into his mouth, Hannibal spreads the blood with his tongue, and Will can’t separate the mingling sensations of his heightening pleasure.

“Oh, fuck, Hannibal, _please_.” He grits out against Hannibal’s teeth, reaching awkwardly behind him to grope for the waistband of Hannibal’s pyjama bottoms. “At least let me _feel_ you.”

With a throaty chuckle, Hannibal lowers himself back onto the bed so he can free his arm and help Will pull away their clothing. Bare skin slides between Will’s thighs, silky smooth over the engorged blood vessels. Warm and slick at the tip, it runs under his perineum, pushing past his sack, adding to the building crescendo of stimulation. Hannibal begins to glide back and forth, sheering further curls of delicious friction, while the tight heat of his hand travels up and down Will’s length.

Will whines and squeezes his thighs as tightly as he can, rutting back to feel Hannibal’s breath hitching against his neck. Sucking on his lip, Will draws on another bright flash of blood, swirling it with the electric currents arcing through him.

A low purr, close to his ear, “Do you want me to take you, Will, just like this?”

_Oh gods._ “Yes,” he breathes.

“Will you give yourself over, completely?”

“Completely.”

Hannibal’s other hand snakes under him and pulls him against his chest with punishing force. Will’s horizons rush towards him, the universe contracting into just this moment, just these sensations, the firing of his nerves and Hannibal’s girth between his legs.

The waves of liquid energy are frenetic, great unstable crests crashing into each other.

“Give yourself over now, Will.” An imperative in the rumble, and Hannibal’s fingers undulate a second layer of pressure into rapid rise and fall of his fist.

The waves gather, surge, and leap. Elation crashes through him, casting him into weightless relief. He cries out, fingers reaching behind his head to curl into Hannibal’s hair and grip there for dear life.

Hannibal stiffens behind and beneath him, his own cry muted as he buries his teeth in Will’s shoulder.

Floating, mind blissfully silent, Will is only tethered to the world by the silken strands of Hannibal’s hair, the tight grip on his torso, the teeth in his shoulder, and the blood in his mouth. It shouldn’t taste this good, he shouldn’t feel this good; but right now – it doesn’t matter. 

Wolf Trap had still been encased in the white patina of winter when he last saw it. Now the predominant colours are tan and brown; the grass light-starved from the season's cloak of the snow, the tapering branches of the trees still baring their unadorned fingers. The countryside is suspended, holding its breath in the damp pre-spring air, waiting for the sun’s warmth to infuse the hemisphere with vitality once again.

Will would like to surround himself in the sleeping forest, find one of the bigger trees and press his ear to the bark, to see if he can hear the sap rising. The tree line looks far away. Correction: his house looks far away; the tree line seems an unconquerable distance.

It’s enough to be out here, with the sky wide overhead – a pale blue streaked with high cirrus clouds. In a few weeks he might start seeing some formations of geese flying north again.

To one side, Hannibal opens the Bentley’s trunk and extracts a cooler bag. It contains the pre-prepared ingredients for lunch, which he intends to finish cooking using Will’s kitchen. The idea of someone else using his kitchen is a strange one, stranger than the idea of having sex had been – something he had at least fantasised about.

Hannibal’s home occupies a different dimension from the rest of the world. The suave Bentley could hold the portal for a while, but as Baltimore’s streets had rolled past the windows, the portal closed, and the remaining atmosphere had drained away, leaving Will in the cold hard light of reality.

The reality of teaching in the staid halls of the FBI, of being ankle deep in crime scenes while profiling Jack's killers, of being a social outcast who had to constantly keep his wits about him so he didn't accidentally savage the likes of Frederick Chilton and Freddie Lounds.

He had left Wolf Trap early on a weekday morning, harassed and distracted, with no inkling that he would be away for a month and a half. He tries to remember how he left the kitchen. At it's best, the surfaces would be clean but with crumbs beneath the toaster, a fine layer of stickiness he can never quite scrub from the surface of the oven. He tries to transpose the idea of Hannibal in a suit over the image of his lounge; it doesn’t quite fit. When he pictures Hannibal trapped in his poky kitchen, it’s almost laughable. He wraps his arms around himself.

His concerns must be spilling out of his head, because Lou stands regarding him with ill-concealed anxiety and accusation, though there’s little coming through their bond from her side. Facial expressions aside, she's been harder and harder to read of late.

At first he had thought the tether between them had grown less painful because they were getting on better, but lately the calm seems a continuous conscious effort on her part. Their recent direct clash had only made it worse.

If they’re going to move forward, one of them will have to give ground. Obviously, it can’t be him. She will have to accept that their dark inclinations are to be treated as a sickness, one that must be managed. He’ll try and use that argument next time. Compare it to alcoholism, or diabetes. If you have diabetes, you don’t go drinking maple syrup out the bottle; if you have the soul of one of nature’s most efficient killers, you don’t go murdering people on the sly. One lands you in hospital, the other lands you in jail.

His hyena continues to bore into him with her black eyes, expression slowly turning to distain, as though she can read his arguments very well, thank you very much, and finds them utterly contemptible. She turns and begins to trot towards the house. He watches after her uneasily. At the sick lurch in his belly from the growing distance between them, he stumbles into motion.

Almost immediately, Hannibal is at his side and matching his pace; not offering assistance, but making it clear he is there should it be required. 

A reverberation of affection in Will’s chest dislodges some guilt over the fickle thoughts of a moment ago, whilst simultaneously anxiety scratches in dark corners. There’s no way Lou would forgive him if he tried to push Hannibal away, so how much choice does he actually have in this relationship? He can live in an uneasy truce with Loumalous in perpetuity, they’ve been existing that way most of their adult life. All out war with his own soul would be much harder to deal with. 

Inflexibility is the only position on the nature versus nurture quandary: they are not going to spill blood. It would be cruel to also deny her Jevgēņjia and Hannibal, but he can't sustain a relationship just to keep her happy. Daemons fall in love all the time, he's seen too many people stay in unhappy relationships for the love of their daemons.

He makes it up the short steps and to the locked front door. Louma waits stiffly with her tail down. He doesn’t want to have this distance between them anymore ,wishes they could just agree to disagree. Despite the silent argument they seem to have found themselves in, he reaches down and strokes through the long hair on the back of her neck.

She lifts her head to look at him in surprise. For a moment, her eyes widen and her shields lower. Through their connection pours love, and hope, and… guilt… so much guilt… Anger and resolve rush in to smother the other emotions, and her walls slam up again, leaving Will blinking at the abrupt end to the onslaught.

Will lifts his hand away cautiously, as though his arm had been the conduit through which her emotions had passed. They skate around in his head; her love warm but bitter with pain, her hope a double-edged blade that cuts, her guilt a writhing serpent in her gut. Her anger though, that is hot and blood-sweet, her resolve an armour that reflected back any attempt to penetrate it.

His hands shake as he retrieves his keys from his coat pocket. He scrapes at the keyhole for a short eternity before sliding the key into the lock, then pushes through the choke point of the door with more force than necessary, stepping clear inside to get some space.

The organised chaos of his home greets him with small comfort, a forlorn reception without the dogs. It is scarcely warmer inside than outside. There are signs of time’s passage here without him: the dog beds and bowls are missing, a thin layer of dust coats every surface, neat piles of mail on the table where Alana has dutifully stacked it. The place feels hollow, shoddy without the distracting glow of quiet canine exuberance.

He sniffs the space like an animal whose returned offspring smells of human, and considers rejecting it. 

A warm hand rests gently on his shoulder. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this does not appear to be the cathartic exercise you were hoping for.”

Will pivots slightly to face Hannibal, drags a smile onto his lips, but can’t keep it there for long. “Just a bit out of sorts I think. Maybe shouldn’t have slept in the car.”

Eye contact with Hannibal isn’t like eye contact with other people. He feels his body relaxing, his mind reassuringly gripped and held by the other man’s regard. Fingers slide up to massage the back of his neck.

“You look pale. Sit. Can I make you something while I prepare lunch? I brought a thermos of coffee, but I can make you some of whatever you have here? Tea?”

A real smile comes to Will’s lips then, of its own accord, but he gives his head a gentle wave to the negative, “Just some water, please.”

“Mmm.” Hannibal rumbles, but doesn’t move away, continuing to knead the back of Will’s neck, and Will’s eyes fall closed in blinks that last longer and longer, tipping his head forward to rest on Hannibal’s chest. “I’ll give you a proper massage later on, if you like?”

“Yes please.” he mumbles.

A chuckle drums through Hannibal’s sternum, and Will feels a kiss being planted in his curls. “Sit now. Rest. I’ll bring you that water." He steps away, and Will sways slightly in his absence. "Louma, would you be so kind as to help me find my way around the kitchen?”

“I can do that.” She responds, claws tapping on the wooden floors as she slopes after him.

Jevgēņjia hesitates, giving Will a lingering look, another of her loaded gazes that he can’t unpack. He smiles crookedly at her, remembering two nights ago: the cold press of her nose. She gives him a wag of her tail, a very un-Painted dog like mannerism, then follows Hannibal into the kitchen.

A small tendril of curiosity reaches after her, but he lets it go, admitting it feels good to have a moment to himself. He scoops up the stack of letters before sinking gratefully into the couch.

His finances are set up to look after themselves – as long as he keeps getting his paychecks – and he doesn’t receive personal correspondence, so the accrued letters hold very little interest or threat, but the simple administration feels like a small step towards normality.

Hannibal brings him a glass of water. “Anything of note?”

“Latest issue of the Journal of Investigative Psychology and Offender Profiling.”

“Ah, do you contribute?”

Will snorted. “No, used to peer review for them.”

“Used to?”

“I can be quite...” Will smiles, baring his teeth. “Pedantic.”

“Surely that is the purpose?”

“Not if you never let any papers through.”

“I see. Can I fetch you a red pen?”

“No need, but thank you.”

He is left with a smile and a warm glow. Hannibal seems to be making himself right at home. Maybe this won’t be so strange.

Noises of domesticity permeate from the kitchen: cupboards opening and closing, the velvet cantata of Loumalous’ voice and the nuanced charisma of Hannibal’s bass form a mesmeric background murmur. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but with the faint sensitivity remaining in their link, he can feel Hannibal’s words soothe Loumalous, feel her tension ease a little.

He rests his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes. It’s not particularly comfortable, even for his freshly loosened neck muscles, and he opens his eyes to clear away the paperwork and lie down, to find Jevgēņjia standing before him.

The white patches on her tan coat reflect the glow from the windows with an almost bluish tint, the colour of evening snow. The black patches seem cast in shadow from some unknown source. Her nose twitches, almost lost in the perpetual darkness of pigmentation around her muzzle, her ochre eyes steady beneath her golden brows and the wide cups of her ears.

“Jia – hi.”

“Hello, Will. How are you feeling?”

“Um, fine really,” he squints, “a little woozy, but that’s par for the course.”

“Are you happy to be home?”

The questions have an air of formality about them, but nothing of small talk, she is circling closer to an objective.

“Um. In a way. Different without the dogs.”

“Your dogs form the soul of this house for you, they anchor you. Do you feel a stranger here without them?”

“A little,” he admits, wondering where she’s going with this.

She moves a little closer, and he guiltily imagines her fur beneath his fingers. “Daemons live outside their people, but humans are their homes. I cannot not survive without Hannibal, and without me, Hannibal would be a shell devoid of meaning. You and Louma may have separate thoughts, but you have locked her out of her home, and if you continue this way, she will kick the door in or die of exposure.”

Will swallows; he had not been expecting a lecture. Jia’s words are free of judgement though, and this still seem to be the preamble as she sniffs around the point.

“I agree with you in theory. But I don’t think you understand what ‘letting her in’ would mean in this context. It could only lead to bad things. For me, and for other people.”

“I’ve told you before, I don’t care about other people. I care about you.”

“And that’s… lovely… Jia, really. But you wouldn’t say that if you knew the real source of tension between Lou and I.”

The African hunting dog finally sinks her teeth into the meat of the discussion, but there’s no visible satisfaction as she sinks back to sit on her haunches with the prize in her jaws. “I do know. And I am still saying it: I don’t care about other people. I care about you.”

Will ceases to breathe. The clatter and quiet cadence of voices continue in the kitchen, and outside the winter birds still sing their thin songs.

Of course, he’s spoken about some of his struggles in his _conversations_ with Hannibal, but not the full extent of it, can she really know? Many people have predators for daemons, not all them want to kill. Exactly how much has Lou confessed in their whispered conversations?

“You know.”

“Yes.”

He tilts his head to the side, voice barely audible, “What do you know?”

“I know you contain multitudes, Will, and that in some of those depths, you dream of claiming all the sharp edges of your power. Of shearing through the unworthy to stand, triumphant, bathed in blood. We would not see you so restrained, we would see you cultivate those dark urges for the inspirations they are.”

No words spring to his assistance, and he swallows the urge to numbly repeat her words back to her. The kitchen has gone quiet.

The image she has painted in his mind leaves him reeling with want, but the sirens are blaring, _danger, danger._ “Why would you want to help me do that?”

Hannibal appears in the doorway but Will doesn’t look up. His eyes are on Jia’s as she takes a deep breath, and gravely exhales. “We’re the Chesapeake Ripper, Will.”

The words sit in the air for a moment, and they don’t make any sense. He looks at the shape of them, listens to the sound of them, taps the syllables against his teeth, features scrunching as though he’s on the edge of a sneeze.

All it takes is one look in Hannibal’s eyes, and it makes perfect sense. Slides faultlessly into the strangely shaped grooves; it would almost be satisfying, if it weren’t so devastating.

He launches himself at the door, yanking Hannibal’s coat off the hook as he passes, spilling out onto the porch and groping in the pockets for keys, screaming Lou’s name and sprinting for the car. The Bentley is parked too far away, he slows as he feels their bond straining. Where is she? Is she safe? Does she even know-?

_Oh my God_. His steps falter and he stops. Louma knows. Loumalous knows, and she doesn’t care. She didn’t tell him, because… because she _doesn’t_ _care._ She would rather have the love of a sadistic intelligent psychopath than live a life of quiet repression, all alone, with him.

The porch door opens, and he turns slowly to watch Hannibal emerge, wearing Will’s coat, accompanied by Will’s daemon. They cross the porch and descend the steps to stand on the grass, eyes penetrating, parsing him for any sign that he might bolt again.

“It’s a coup, Will,” he sighs. “We’re both at the dubious mercy of our daemons.” He casts his eyes back reprovingly at the African wild dog, who remains at the top of the steps, a little apart. “I’m not quite sure why Jevgēņjia thought this was kinder than the method Louma and I had worked out, but there you have it. Honesty, cards on the table, chips falling where they may; the truth, and all its consequences.”

“What is this? Someone explain this to me. _Loumalous_?”

The levy breaks, and a wall of emotion smashes through their link: guilt and anger and pain and _defiance_. Defenceless, Will buckles to his knees. She ambles over, her gait resolute, and he is reminded of so many dreams when she prowls over like this, unrecognisable to him, preparing to tear out his throat.

Instead, she halts before him and regards him soberly. “This, is our becoming.”

“How long have you known?” He asks, eyes stinging.

She snaps her teeth in frustration. “Never mind that. This is more important than who did what to who when. This is the moment you embrace who we are. We have a family now, they have accepted us; it’s your turn.”

He gapes at her. “Do you… really not get it? Loumalous! These aren’t normal people accepting us, _the Chesapeake Ripper_ is accepting us. This isn’t _acceptance,_ this is… condemnation.”

Loumalous’ hindquarters falter. “My God. I should have known.” She shakes her head and looks away, a long silence driven past them by the wind. Will should be filling the silence with all the eloquent arguments he has for why this can’t possibly work, but all he can focus on is the pain pouring from the ruptured floodgates in his chest, mingling with the anoxic tides of Loumalous’ thundering emotions.

“You’re the broken one here, Will. Not me. Hannibal and Jia are putting their lives on the line by trusting us. Everything they’ve done for us, everything I know you’ve felt, and you’d just sever them completely, wouldn’t you? All for your stubborn fixation on rules created by hypocrites, in a world that will always hate you, no matter how much you hate yourself.” 

“Lou-”

“We were trying to ease you into it. But you’re too stubborn. It wouldn't have mattered what we did, you would have dug your spurred heels in and ripped up the ground. Well it’s too late now, I wash my jaws of you. Come around to the idea, or don’t, but it’s your turn to get dragged around by this chain that binds us.” She turns to walk away then pauses, swinging her head around to look round at him. “And let me make this clear: if you try and rat them out to the Feds, I’ll claim we ate the victims of our own free choice. We can spend the rest of our days in a padded cell for all I care.”

Will blinks. “Ate. The…” Oh. God. He wants to cry, laugh and be sick, and all of them merge as he gags on a choked out wail. Of course - not trophies, not of the mounting kind.

Loumalous walks back towards the house, towards where Hannibal is standing quietly, observing. Jevgēņjia stares at Will too, body listing forward as though she wants to run to him. He wishes she would, hopes she doesn’t.

“Lou,” he calls, tears sticky on his face. “Please, don’t do this.”

“The only one making you suffer here, is you.” She spits, without turning to look at him. She climbs to the porch steps and reaches the African wild dog.

Jia is more shaken that Lou currently, the hyena riding high on a wave of righteous fury. They exchange some hushed words, then Lou sets about washing her below the ears, burying her nose in the seam behind her jaw. The African wild dog leans into her, closing her eyes briefly, but only briefly, before returning her haunted eyes to Will.

“Will,” Hannibal says, and the bastard has the effrontery to sound reasonable and composed. “Come inside and we’ll-”

“No!” He hurls the word. The only weapon at his disposal are dismal pointless words that won’t get him anywhere. 

“Will,” Hannibal’s voice is firm, “you’re still recovering. Sitting on the cold ground for a-”

“Shut up. Just, shut up. You son of a bitch.” He curls forward and rests his head on his knees, chest heaving with sobs. A question bubbles up through the mucus and tears, but he can only mumble it into his lap. “What did she mean, ‘easing me into it’.” 

Hannibal doesn’t appear to hear him. “ _Ar to reikėjo_ , Jevgēņjia?”

“You don’t play these kinds of games with the ones you love, Hannibal. You should know better.”

“You wanted me to help Louma. That meant driving Will to accept himself. But you have thwarted my every attempt to do just that.”

“When we continued to disagree on the methods, you said you were prepared to accept the consequences. For that, honest conversations are required. Your Machiavellian schemes won’t work in matters of the heart. I’ve been trying to tell you.”

Will rears up again. “ _What did she mean_ , ‘easing me into it?’ Did she mean feeding me people?” He spits, “or is there more?”

Hannibal turns back to him, rational and unapologetic. “We were treating you with a form of augmented hypnotherapy; the power of Loumalous’ suggestion coupled with a mild hallucinogen.”

The cramps in his stomach are crushed by new implosive forces, his organs contracting and collapsing inwards into dense neutron stars, screaming silent radio waves into the void inside him. _Hobbs_. “You were giving me hallucinogens while I recovered from brain disease.”

Hannibal dismisses his concern with a passing facial expression. “This compound has demonstrated the ability to improve the neural connections damaged by strokes and seizures. Being on the DEA’s banned substances list, it hasn’t been introduced into American hospitals. There’s nothing to indicate it would affect the antivirals.”

“How convenient, it’s all for my benefit.” Will croaks.

Calderas for eyes, Hannibal smiles benevolently. “Yes, Will, it is. In our sessions with Hobbs, you claimed killing would be a sign you had fractured your mind. I think you’ll find, in your case, killing would allow you heal it.”

He might not be able to stand, but if it’s a battle of wills, Will’s always been a stubborn bastard. Turning, he scrabbles away on his hands and knees, Hannibal’s coat discarded, the Bentley’s keys in his fist. The nausea builds in his stomach as their ethereal tether stretches, a dull ache building and spreading through him, growing serrated edges. Lou would have to follow to him. She would _have_ to. 

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice sharp behind him.

“Stay away,” he wheezes. It feels as though his organs are snagged and he’s pulling, pulling away. He sinks to his belly, whimpering. He can’t go further, it’s too much; he can hear a low keening coming from behind, but Louma has comfort on her side. The comfort of monsters. Monsters like her. Monsters like him.

_No.  
_

He grabs a fistful of turf and hauls himself another inch further, a pained gasp tearing from his lips, breathing ragged. Lou crying out but still, _still_ refusing to budge. He just has to keep going, eventually she will have to concede, and they will drive away, and it will all be okay. It will all be okay if he can just _keep moving_.

He heaves another inch forward.

“Will!” Hannibal’s voice is raw, nearer than he should be. His own tether must be stretching, Jia unwilling to leave Loumalous as she fights her side of the battle. “You may end up doing yourself irreparable damage. I implore you, come back.”

Will ignores him, surely it won’t come to that. If he can just push a bit further, Lou will _have_ to give in. 

Jia is making similar indistinct pleas to Lou, then lifts her voice to shout, “Go get him, Hannibal, _please_.”

“I will not do that to you.”

“Do it _for_ me, Hannibal, _please_.”

Senses wavering between acute overstimulation and unconsciousness, he can feel Hannibal’s footsteps through the ground as he fights his way closer, away from his daemon, hears a snarl of pain and rapid shallow breaths, and Will knows he has lost. Even if he could force Lou to heel, what are the chances the Chesapeake Ripper would just let them go?

Shaking with the strain, Hannibal reaches Will’s legs and seizes an ankle, dragging him back within reach, then bodily lifting him and staggering back to the porch. He drops to his knees on the muddy wooden slats, tipping forward to roll Will onto the floor and falling beside him, reaching out to embrace his African wild dog.

The urgency of the pain has lifted, but a throbbing ache remains, their bond strained and distorted, loose and limp between them. Tears stream down from Will’s eyes and he can’t help himself; he gathers Loumalous to him and bawls into the ruff of her neck. She curves her chin over his head, shaking too, and they cling together in shared abject misery, blindly gasping soothing gulps of each other's proximity. In that moment, with his arms tight around her and his face hidden in her fur, he is forced to acknowledge that he truly cannot live without his daemon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooeee, bit of a rollercoaster for our Will. Well, for everyone really. Pesky emotions. 
> 
> Still, now the healing can begin. The healing and murdering, aaaaw.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a gentler chapter for you! And some answers...

The house, silent now for some hours, slowly falls dark. No one rises to light the lamps. Will and Loumalous lie clasped on the bed, sheets streaked with mud and blades of grass. Hannibal and Jia have collapsed together on the couch, similarly wading through the spent and bloodied battlefields of existential crisis.

Only when full darkness has engulfed the house does the rustle of fabric announce Hannibal rising from the sofa. An immediate soft thump follows, Jia jumping down to keep pressed against his legs. “I’ll see what can be salvaged of lunch.” Practical, matter of fact, no expectation of a response; not cold, but lacking the extra infusion of warmth that has become customary of late. The light in kitchen paints the living room walls in shadows and shades of grey.

It’s not that Will doesn’t want to answer him, so much as he feels completely stripped of the ability to form any solid subjective position on the matter. On any matter. All he can really say for certain, is that Lou is in his arms, and whatever happens, he is not letting go.

A little while later Hannibal sits on the side of the bed. He has made soup.

In and amongst all the shapeless noises of Will's confusion, there is some familiarity and comfort in this care. He won’t unclench from Louma, and she is just as disinclined to separate from him, but he tilts his head and Hannibal begins the careful process of trying to feed him.

Will can’t manage much, his organs all feel twisted out of shape, and Hannibal doesn’t push; he understands. Hannibal finishes the broth for Will with his own brand of reluctance, then takes the bowl away and comes back with a glass of water and the antivirals. Will swallows them then curls more tightly around his daemon. Hannibal deposits the glass on the nightstand and crawls onto the mattress to fit himself in a curve around Will’s back, tucking his knees behind Will’s. Jevgēņjia’s weight joins the camp bed, which groans in protest at the combined mass of them all. 

It is the only thing that protests.  


* * *

Interlude: Loumalous

* * *

Hobbs slams the door shut behind the woman as she drops to the floor, blood cascading down her throat. Her blue jay daemon flutters brokenly on the wooden decking, vanishing in a puff of Dust as Will tries and hold the woman's wound shut. Loumalous watches with swelling pride as he stands, draws his gun, and kicks down the door.

Chasing after him into the house, senses heightened with _purpose_ , they follow the sounds of distress into the kitchen. Hobbs holds a knife to a young woman’s neck – _his_ _daughter –_ whispering in her ear as she struggles with eyes that are limpid puddles of fear. Her daemon flashes between shapes, a snake, a bird, a fox... too overwhelmed and confused to attack and defend.

Lou’s instincts scream at her to _dodge to the right_ as a bobcat daemon leaps from the kitchen counter with extended claws. It misses her, just barely, and she lunges back in to snap her jaws around its neck. Above her, Will pulls the trigger.

 _Blam. Blam. Blam, blam, blam._ She loses count of the shots as the bobcat daemon jerks and yowls in her jaws. In this moment she feels more connected to Will than she has in years; the two pursuing the same objective with single-minded determination.

The girl caught the knife and has fallen to the floor. Slumped in the corner, the perforated man still heaves in breaths, his bobcat still struggling. Righteous fury and exultation tighten Loumalous’ grip, teeth sinking into the hard resistance of bone and it feels _amazing_ , just as she always knew it would.

Hobbs is whispering again, and Lou can feel the low burn of Will’s delicious anger being corrupted by fear and concern for the girl. Already Will is pushing down the release and reprieve of violence, reaching for the guilt and wrapping it around him, the antithesis of a comfort blanket.

Loumalous has been holding back, holding back for so long, and to feel Will embrace their nature, even for a fleeting second, makes his retreat into belligerent timidity all the more disappointing. Before the moment can slip from her grasp completely, before Hobbs can die of blood loss, Lou releases the catch on her jaws and clamps down with all the squandered might of her muscles. The dense peaks of her teeth are no match for the vertebra beneath, and she feels them slide past the resistance of bone, bone that crunches, then shatters, crumbling away; all of the bobcat crumbling, bursting into a thick cloud of Dust. The illusion of her daemon body ripped away to reveal the falsehood; no bones, no fur, no blood. The soul substance tickles her nose, and Loumalous sneezes, dispersing it further.

_Is that all I am?_ She thinks, looking up at Will’s back as he fumbles at the dying girl's neck, Hobbs’ empty body slumped in the corner. _It’s all I am without him._

She can’t afford any more estrangement; how much had she revealed in those moments with the bobcat between her teeth? How much will he remember of her response, or of his own catharsis in the kill?

Hannibal’s long legs walk by, and she lifts her head to watch him move towards her human. He meets her eyes with passing consolation, then crouches next to Will, the African hunting dog appearing at her side.

“Well done.” Jevgēņjia breathes, stepping in and pressing against her, shoulders to hip, head tucking against her neck. 

The wash of reassurance that sweeps in from the contact turns a light on in an abandoned room of her mind, a forgotten memory of being held and soothed. She leans into it, shaking harder, dumbfounded with gratitude that she can’t examine now, not with Will finally turning to meet her eyes.

His expression is a tight bundle of fears and accusations, and one thing is immediately clear: this changes nothing. She hadn't dared air any hopes, but her heart sinks all the same, dread coursing in to fill the site where hope might have sat, had she allowed it. Jevgēņjia nudges closer, almost overbalancing her, and breaks free of Will’s gaze, lurching to push back and accommodate the added weight, the extra affection being channelled through the warm body at her side.

When the daughter’s body is loaded into the ambulance and Hannibal steps up to accompany her, Jevgēņjia lifts her nose to Lou’s ear and whispers, “We’ll wait for you at the hospital,” before dashing away and leaving Lou with Will. She stares after the agile creature and wishes she could follow.

Looking up at Will, he deigns to lower his chin and meet her gaze. Whatever he sees, he doesn’t like it, quickly looking away. She can’t see the lines of his internal monologue, but the thought he swallows move down her throat like the bitter slide of lemon juice.

Will is hurting too, but he won’t look to her for comfort, nor will he offer her any. They might curl up with the dogs when they get back to Virginia; the pack a conduit that allows her and Will to exchange some buffered affection. If she tells him that Hannibal and Jia will be waiting at the hospital, he will avoid them.

When one of the local plain-clothes cops approaches, Will takes a deep breath as if surfacing from a dive, blinking with the sunlight. Wherever he'd been in his mind, it was darker than this autumnal afternoon. The detective's eyebrows rise into his receding hairline.

“Graham, right?”

His daemon is an impressively large pink sow, and Lou can see instantly that she is a good natured if jaded creature. She feels some kinship with the cynical pig; it can’t be easy being on the police force with a daemon like that. But then, being the butt of jokes isn’t the same as being reviled.

Whatever affinity Lou feels isn't enough for Will. Naturally wary of any offer of assistance, he insists on driving them back to the motel alone. Through the journey, and during Will’s despondent shower, Lou subtly fans his concern for Abigail. Her own thoughts, _Hobbs and Hannibal_ , twine around each other strangely and she keeps them as far from her link with Will as she can.

The moment they enter Abigail’s hospital room, it is clear to Loumalous that Jevgēņjia is only pretending to sleep. There’s a conspiratorial gleam in her eye as she gives an endearing performance of a drowsy greeting. Excitement flutters incorporeally in Lou's chest, but she smothers it as she lies down, doing her part to make Will feel the exhaustion he carries around with him. In a few minutes, he is asleep.

She waits until she feels him start dreaming, the lure of sleep beckoning her to join too, but she gently detaches herself and lifts her head. Dark red eyes are already waiting with a warm greeting. “Hello, Louma. May I call you Louma, my wolf?”

_If hyenas could blush…_ Lou thinks, ducking her eyes and enjoying the throaty chuckle from the African wild dog.

“If you like.”

“Quite the human you have there.”

Lifting her gaze again, Lou feels a wry smile scrunching her whiskers. “He’s certainly stubborn.”

“He uses you the way Jack uses him.”

Loumalous’ eyes widen, the truth of it plunging her into immediate sobriety. She perceives through the weave of the words that they clothe a subset of intentions. “Are you trying to alienate me from Will, or from Jack?”

Jevgēņjia chuckles again, gentler this time. “I would say you are already alienated enough, Louma.”

“And what about you?” Lou challenges softly, “Perhaps my nose is failing me, but at breakfast this morning, I could have sworn there was a very _unusual_ ingredient in the scramble. Very difficult to get a hold of.”

Jia’s dish ears twitch, the golden fur on her forehead rustling as her brow crinkles, wariness mingling with approval. “Not so difficult, once you know how.” She sharpens her gaze and adds, “How refined your senses are.”

Lou snorts inelegantly, then lowers the timber of her voice, “Helps that it made me salivate. Food doesn’t usually do that.”

“Oh my dear,” Jia sighs, delight a swift undercurrent that could sweep Lou away, “we really will have to remedy that.”

Looking over her shoulder at Will, lax and defenceless in his chair, she feels a twang of guilt. The idea is intoxicating, but can she really let him continue engaging in cannibalism? He would be horrified. The thought brings a bubble of laughter to her throat, and she chokes it down, worried of waking him.

She will have to hold her tongue, unless she wants Jia and Hannibal thrown in jail - a notion that quickly becomes intolerable. It shouldn't be difficult, Will never puts any amount effort into looking her way for answers. He expects her to do her part by offering the useful insights and keeping back the ones that Will fines distasteful. With the distance he keeps between them, he will never see what she doesn’t elect to show.

“How long have the two of you been at odds like this?” Jia asks, bringing her attention back.

Lou smiles and shuffles closer. “Pretty much since I settled, we seem kind of stuck like this.”

“Hmm. We could help you with that. If you ask us.”

Lou twitches her ears regretfully. “He doesn’t do therapy.”

“We can arrange something less formal.”

Allowing a self-deprecating snigger, she shakes her head, “He doesn’t do informal, either.”

The shadowed red eyes glow with fortifying certitude. “Then we shall find somewhere between the two. Hannibal can be very, hum, resourceful.”

“So it seems,” Lou smirks. The fluttering excitement returns as she considers the proposition before her. A kindred soul, experienced and smart enough not to get caught, offering help. This wouldn’t be a patchwork of bandages over the infected wounds between them, allowing them to plod further into their grey limbo. This would be a deep clean and re-suturing, fixing the problem at its root. Fixing Will. 

“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes please, I would like your help.”

-

The air inside Hannibal’s house is a panacea for the weeks of sharp vapours rising off the chemically canvased hospital surfaces. The corduroy daemon cushion is softer and plusher than the plastic coated foam provided in the wards, and the reprieve from the nurses’ side-eyeing daemons is especially welcome.

“Lou?” Will’s voice floats down from above, then amends, “Louma? Sutcliffe as the Ripper. Does that feel right to you?”

She does appreciate his efforts to call her by her preferred name, and it's nice to be consulted, even if his priorities leave something to be desired. He's right, too. When she's thought about Sutcliffe at all since the revelation of his malpractice, it's been to gnaw on his bones at the back of her mind. Outrage and violation that he had taken advantage of them at their most vulnerable moment.  
  
Admitting it isn't easy for either of them, but in her private innermost sanctuary, she has admired the Ripper's skill and his artistry - and she knows Will has too. When they met, she could see Sutcliffe lacked any real moral fortitude, but neither he nor his daemon seemed to possess the passion or heart of an aesthete. 

“…Or the Ripper had a connection to Sutcliffe that pre-dates us.”

There is an implicit understanding between the daemons that Louma is essentially compromised; the less she knows, the safer they all are. She has actively avoided wondering about Hannibal’s own methods and pathology, discouraged connections that try to form. In that moment the pieces click in place, and the revelation is so blindingly evident that she has to let the epiphany play opossum in the back of her mind until Will's focus diverted again.

Fortunately, distraction comes in the form of Hannibal, and with him the solace of Jevgēņjia. 

The other daemon greets her playfully and nestles in next to her. “How are you, my love?” Jia whispers against her cheek.

“Much better for being here, I still can’t thank you enough.”

“Nonsense.” Jia murmurs, molten steel in the ripples of her voice.

Lou rubs her snout along Jia’s cheek. “I think, if we can manage it, the three of us should have a conversation.”

Jevgēņjia dips her nose to nuzzle under Lou’s jaw. “How fortuitous; here I was, about to suggest exactly that.”

A small amount of tension eases in them both, and they rest together more comfortably. Hannibal has never intruded into their whispered conversations, though Lou is aware he is privy to their exchanges.

When Will drifts to sleep, requiring very little extra assistance on Louma’s part, she blinks up to meet Hannibal’s gaze. His eyes say so little, compared to most, but in this instant he is parting the veil, and she sees the truth of him for a moment; the mighty intellect that partners Jia's perseverance and prowess. His favourable regard is clear too; he admires her, he is fond of her, fascinated by them both. 

He has been massaging cramps out of Will’s hand, and now lowers it gently on the bed before transferring himself into the green armchair beside the daemon cushion. “Good evening, Loumalous.”

“Dr Lecter.” She says, with ersatz formality, as though meeting him for the first time.

Hannibal’s formality is not artifice. “I should like to apologise to you. An… error of judgement on my part led to you the mercantile devices of Dr Sutcliffe.”

Normally, Lou wouldn’t dream of interrupting Hannibal, but she doesn’t want him to lie, to feel he has to lie. “I know who the Chesapeake Ripper is.” She says, slowly.

He sees immediately that she is not referring to Sutcliffe. He nods his head as neurons fire rapid grappling hooks across synaptic gaps. “I see,” he returns, “I did wonder.”

Jia presents her question silently within her luminous blood-moon eyes, and Lou explains, “Will and I discussed it earlier. He has doubts about Sutcliffe, but no other candidates.” She lifts her eyes shyly to Hannibal again. "We were expecting someone more capable, with more innate, um, creativity." 

Above them, Hannibal lips twitch up at the compliments. "We all have hidden depths." He drums his fingers lightly on the arm of the chair. “Concerning your case, Jevgēņjia has corrected certain misconceptions I had about the lengths to which I am allowed to go in assisting with your recovery. There are certain treatments we are still debating, which have their benefits and drawbacks.”

Jia stiffens slightly at her side, and Lou blinks at the clinical detachment in Hannibal’s voice. “What did you have in mind?”

Flicking his eyes over to Will, Hannibal frowns.

Lou peeks through their bond; Will is fast asleep. “He’s checked out,” she reassures him, and Hannibal turns his head before pulling away his gaze.

“Would it be helpful if I were to facilitate a line of dialogue between you and Will, one he might approach without the pre-set patterns he falls into with you?”

She inclines her head; yes, that would be helpful.

“It would require some measures he will not appreciate in the short term, a deception that will require both of our participation.”

A slow smile comes to her black lips as Hannibal goes on to outline the plan, and she licks her chops. It’s drastic. It’s unethical. But it might actually work. Loumalous lets herself dream for a moment that, one day, she and Will really might move through the world as one being. Beside her, Jia sighs and lowers her head onto her forearms.

-

Standing in the kitchen doorway at Hannibal’s knee, Loumalous watches Will flee the house. He has the grace to call for her on the way out, but it still takes the pull on their tether for him to stop and wait. Well, this was never going to be easy. She feels a small ray of relief that the ruse is up, the effort of keeping her borders secure from Will a constant drain on her energy. This promises to be a whole different carnival of fun.

Heaving a great sigh, she meets Hannibal’s eyes for his direction. She manages to withstand his gaze is only be virtue of the fact that the anger there is not aimed at her. Louma has never seen Hannibal lose his temper, and in this moment she hopes this is the closest she ever comes. A stiff column of muscle, he diverts his gaze to his daemon. 

Jevgēņjia meets their eyes. “I thought it best he were home, for the revelation. We don’t want him to feel trapped in our house, after all.”

Without answering, Hannibal marches to the door and pulls on Will’s coat. It’s a little stiff in the arms and across his shoulders, it matching the rigidity of his back. Lou shoots Jia a conciliatory look, then runs to follow Hannibal out the door to present a united front.

When the door next opens, the sun is a little further west and lower in the sky. The twinned pairs staggering in to collapse in dilapidated heaps. Will hasn’t clutched Louma to him like this since they were children, since she could be a tiger cub or a scrappy terrier. Despite the wretched twisted mess of her insides from their awful stretch, the fierce embrace brings a warm glow to her. She can feel his heart beating against his chest, and with it pulses the insistence: _I do love you, I do love you, I do love you…_

She’s needed to hear it for so long, and now its here she can scarcely believe it. She bathes in it, soaking it in, letting it loosen knots in their soul that she had long believed a permanent part of them; the whorls in tree bark, the striations of rock formations.

She pushes her own sentiment through the abused conduit of their bond. _I love you too, dummy._

* * *

The morning is bright and abrasive. The curtains, still parted from the day before, allow the sun to course unobstructed through the windows. Birds chirp merrily from the eaves of the house, and the sky is flagrantly unabashedly blue.

Will yearns for the vast cumulonimbus clouds that used to roll in off the Gulf, crackling with lightning and growling with torrential hunger. He wants the sky to crack open and drench those bright chirpy birds, wash the world away with the abrupt efficiency of a flash flood. 

Hannibal is preternaturally still behind him in the bed, and at some point, Will is going to have to start thinking about the paradigm shift in his universe. For now, gripping Loumalous to his chest helps soothe their mutual wound, ice to each other’s burn.

It’s reminiscent of the encephalitis, when the sickness left him feeling passive and submissive, too sore to use his brain for its intended purpose. This ache has no physical stimulus, there’s no cellular damage. Instead, an unsteady force field wobbles inside him, an erratic miasma of disorientating internal gravity, distorting the planes of his intramural landscape like a fever.

Eventually, Hannibal shifts away, climbs from the bed, Jia slipping off close behind. Will listens as the pair make their way into the kitchen, his exposed back cooling quickly. The faint squeak of cupboards indicates Hannibal is searching his stores. Will doubts he will find much to his liking.

Pots and pans clank, the faucet runs, the gas stove clicks on, and a strand of constricting tension loosens in Will. Somehow, Hannibal is still taking care of him. Somehow, Will is still grateful.

When Hannibal returns he has tea and a bowl of steaming porridge oats seasoned with cinnamon and brown sugar. Aware of his hunger, Lou shuffles up the bed with him, so she can lie across his legs with her head on his belly while he accepts the bowl and spoon.

Curious and a little scared of what he might find, Will meets Hannibal's eyes. Predominantly: exhaustion, but in the creases at the edges of his eyes there is still fondness, and perhaps a touch of fear. Managing a small non-committal murmur of thanks, Will lifts a spoonful, inhaling the comforting aroma of sweet spices before cooling the oats with a current from his bruised lungs.

Hannibal makes two more trips to the kitchen, returning with Will’s pills and water for them both, and then finally with his own bowl of porridge. He sits on the bed, gracefully crossing his legs, tucking his socked feet under him with the bowl held at an impeccable horizontal. Jia climbs up to lie pressed against his side, and Loumalous turns around so she can face the other daemon while still lying across Will’s lower half.

Smiling ruefully into his bowl, Hannibal confides, “Porridge always reminds me of the orphanage.”

It briefly crosses Will’s mind that Hannibal is looking for sympathy, but the anger is too energetic to hold onto, and he lets it fly free from his grasp. The reference is just a memory, which Hannibal has chosen to share with Will because there will be no more secrets between them now. Their daemons have made that perfectly clear.

Curiosity is easier to channel than anger. “How long were you there?” He rasps, throat raw, but the sweet porridge is helping.

Hannibal’s eyes are on the muddy sheets, lids low, eyelashes catching the light cast through the windowpanes. “You know, I’m not entirely sure. Records from those days would be hard to find, and I haven’t diverted any resources to the pursuit. I think I recall three separate Easter masses, but there is little worth remembering from those days.”

“Why did it take so long for your uncle to find you?”

Will can almost see the smouldering wake Hannibal’s gaze leaves as it tracks up the sheets to meet his own. “He believed I had died with the rest of my family. Everyone did. It was hard to convince them otherwise, considering the feral state I was in when they found me.”

“Especially as we took a vow of silence.” Jia remarks dryly, eyes closed, head resting against Lou.

“If I’d tried to pursue my claim, every other urchin in that place would have clamoured that they too were the lost Lecter heir.”

Squinting through time, Will can just make out a gangly boy; high cheekbones and sharp elbows, powerless and alone in an austere institution. “It’s difficult to imagine you like that.”

“It was a long time ago.” Hannibal shuttles another spoonful of porridge to his mouth, visibly finding less associative spiritual sustenance in it.

“At what point did Jevgēņjia settle?” The questions are invasive, but unravelling Hannibal’s history helps distract from the barbed wire tumbleweed scouring his innards. 

Jia lifts her chin to look at Hannibal, and he meets her gaze thoughtfully. “After my parents were killed, but before I was taken to the orphanage.” He’s omitting something, but acknowledging the blank space and using it as a placeholder for a future conversation. Will doesn’t have the drive to push.

Suffice to say that trauma could lead to Early Stage Daemon Locking, and if the death of his parents wasn’t bad enough to trigger it, then whatever had happened in the interim must have been pretty bad. ESDL is rare, and rarer still are the resulting shapes dangerous in form. A pre-pubescent teenager appearing with a fixed predator daemon was sure to generate some strong reactions. As beautiful as Jevgēņjia is, Hannibal must know first hand what it is to have people recoil from his soul. 

Scraping the bowl clean, Will leans away just enough to slide it onto the bedside cabinet and collect his tea, then he hunkers down closer to Lou, burying his fingers in her long coat.

In the morning sunlight, the Chesapeake Ripper and Hannibal Lecter fuse more completely into a single entity; Hannibal made monstrous, the Ripper made human. He contemplates the ochre irises that catch the sun and seem only a fraction less red than his daemon's. 

“Where do we go from here?” Will asks, knowing he’s no longer in control of the situation, but not knowing what that means.

“The goal is still the same. Louma spoke of your bond as a leash, and yesterday you both treated it as such; we must fix that perception. Accepting what you are is difficult, but your existence will be transformed when you do. You will be able to harness all the energy that you put into fighting yourself.” Hannibal pauses. “When you do, nothing will be able to stand against you, and the angels will weep to behold your radiance.”

Ah, such beautiful words, until you consider the works of the wordsmith, and remember his aesthetics; the glistening purple innards of his canvasses. He shivers, ingrained revulsion warring with the light of intrigue.

“I couldn’t ask for a better teacher,” he mutters, the sentiment souring the tea.

Loumalous shifts her position to bring him into her gaze, and he lets her see the second layer of meaning in the words: an admission that the fight really has gone out of him. He will follow her into this dark new world. Her relief and gratitude sand down the splintered edges of his anxiety.

Will Graham is dying, he realises. It may take days, it may take months, but the man he thought he was, the man he fought so hard to be, would soon cease to exist. Through their bond, he feels her settle by the banks of his pain. _I'll be there with you, every step of the way,_ she conveys, her presence superseding language. He drinks long draughts of the affection she transmits, and wonders how he lived so long without it. 

There's still a lot to process, a lot to figure out, but even he has to admit the daunting weight of the future seems less oppressive now. _'Screw the world,_ ' she had said. _'If you could accept me, I wouldn’t need the world.'_ He's beginning to see what she means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will: _'Ok fine I'll be a murderer damnit.'_  
>  Louma: 'Yaaaay', *chases tail*.  
> Hannibal & Jia: *radiate smugness*.
> 
> Next week: Will adjusts to new ways of thinking, and Sutcliffe continues to have a bad month.
> 
> Thank you again for reading and for your support, y'all have me aspiring to make it worth your while!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you to all of those who've made it this far! I hope you enjoy this week's offering ^_^

**Chapter 9**

The crunch of gravel has all their ears pricking, daemons first and then their humans. Hannibal goes to the window, standing to one side to allow him to observe without exposure. “It’s Jack,” the forbearance in his tone a little forced.

Will scoops up Louma and huddles back down onto the bed, completely unprepared to deal with this. He doesn’t need to see Hannibal to feel his smile, to know he’ll handle it.

When the front door opens, it admits a cool humus breeze, refreshing and earthy. The contrast is all the more welcome in a room drenched with stress pheromones. Jack’s voice is also stressed, his boots thumping up the porch steps, “So this is where you are, why have your phones been off?”

“Neither of us are on call at the moment, Jack, we’re not obliged to keep our phones on.”

“Able Gideon escaped from Baltimore State Hospital yesterday afternoon. His tracks have him heading back to Baltimore.”

“Then you were concerned for our safety? The head of the FBI’s Behavioural Science Unit, taking the time to personally search for us while a mentally ill convict is on the loose?”

Will can just see Jack in the doorway now, through Louma’s slightly raised hackles tickling his face. Jia and Tanith are practically nose to nose at the door, Jack giving Hannibal a flat-eyed stare. “I want Will’s help with this. If he’s out here instead of under your care in Baltimore, he must be better, right?” A challenge that finishes with a flourish of anticipated victory.

With a sigh, Hannibal’s entire posture changes. He sags, deflating and losing the height advantage he has against Jack. “Actually, allowing this was an error in judgement. It proved a bit much. He had another seizure, his first all week.” He steps back to allow Jack and Tanith access to the room.

Jack takes in the doctor’s appearance now that his posture conveys less authority; the shadows around his eyes, the loose strands of hair, clothes that have been slept in.

Acknowledging Jack’s hesitant examination, Hannibal smiles wryly. “It’s been a difficult night for us both.”

Stepping into the room, Jack blocks the light coming through the door, casting his shadow across the wooden floorboards, and Will takes note of the ominous feeling his shade brings with it. As he approaches, Jack’s eyes flick to take in the rumpled couch cushions, and he comes to his own conclusions about where Hannibal spent the night. Will relaxes a fraction as he sees this, and just hopes Tanith doesn’t think too much of Hannibal’s scent on Will’s sheets – he would have been tending physician, after all.

“Hey, Jack.” It really takes no acting on his part to sound as exhausted and unenthusiastic as he does.

Eyes tracking across the grass and mud stains dried across Will’s clothes and the sheets, Jack asks, “Seizure happen outside?”

Will dips his head in confirmation.

“Know what triggered it?”

He looks away and shakes his head, scared the truth might try thumping its fists against the windows of his eyes.

“I carried him in.” Hannibal reports glumly, conveniently explaining the mud on his own shirt. “I would have had to keep waking him every few hours to run light dilation and reflex tests, but his sleep was restless anyway, which worries me.”

Even knowing this is a performance, Will feels unsettled at Hannibal’s claims. He hopes he’s not laying it on too thick, he doesn’t want to end up back in hospital. Peeking up, he sees Hannibal has appeared at Jack’s side, the two men looming over him more than usual, and he shuts his eyes again, deciding to keep them that way.

“Will he need to go back to the hospital?” Jack asks, his concern flowing from two separate tributaries, only one of which is for Will's sake.

A thoughtful hum and a resigned sigh. “He has a test scheduled for the day after tomorrow. His reactions and responses are fine, but…”

“He looks awful.” Jack agrees to some silent prompt. Will supposes it’s rare to see a grown man clinging so tightly to their daemon, and probably even more surprising in Will’s case.

“I think it’s been a bit of a blow psychologically.” Hannibal confides in a lower voice, leading Jack away. “The road to recovery is often beset with minor setbacks, and really, unless the fever spikes again, I wouldn’t consider this a relapse. These things often serve to remind us that we cannot adjust the speed of our recuperation, however hard we push ourselves.” 

Jack is certainly smart enough to see the point Hannibal is making, the question lies in whether or not he is bull-headed enough to barge straight through it. The sigh he releases tells Will enough; their performances and appearances have convinced him, and Will has bought a little time before having to match wits with the FBI. 

Showered and driving back to Baltimore in Hannibal’s Bentley, Will stretches out on the backseat with his eyes closed and Louma pressed along him. Jia is mostly in the front passenger seat, keeping as close to Hannibal as she can without obstructing his range of motion.

“In the spirit of honesty, I should inform you that you are not currently my only houseguest.”

Will keeps his eyes shut, fresh dread trickling into him. He wonders if he dare lift the lid on the churning pot of emotions bubbling beneath the surface to add this new one, or if all the others will come gushing out.

Sutcliffe; if it’s not a random victim, it will be Sutcliffe. Still alive, after all this time, but in what condition? “Is it my neurologist?”

“It is.”

“Have I-” he swallows, “been eating him?”

“Parts of him, on occasion. I thought it only fair he help restore your strength, given all he had taken.”

Will grinds his jaw against the soft leather of the backseat, hoping his bristly stubble leaves a permanent scuff mark. “What about you? What are you going to feed me of yourself, for all that you’ve taken?”

“What have I taken, Will?”

This is a strangely difficult question to answer; most of the blame lies at his own feet, his and Louma’s. “You were conspiring with Sutcliffe, you would have let me continue to deteriorate together, if Jia hadn’t spoken up,” he answers instead, having pieced that much together upon reviewing the memory in light of new information. 

“Only to make it easier to employ subliminal techniques for helping you dismantle the fortresses you built between you and Louma. I would have insisted proper medical care before it got passed a certain point. Donald made both impossible when he isolated you for his experiment.”

“I was having seizures, losing time, losing my _mind_. At what point did you consider it to be too far?”

“As you may remember,” Jevgēņjia speaks from the front seat, “we were a little divided on that matter.”

Hearing Jia’s voice brings a cool stream of soothing water, bright with flashes of slender little fish made of guilt. Hannibal and his soul encompass a strange duality; willing to hurt him, determined to help him. A part of Hannibal cares for Will more than Will can profess to himself. This part resides in Jia, but Will struggles to reconcile that they are one being, just as he and Loumalous are.

The basement lights flicker on, and Will gapes at the space: a strange cross between MASH and whichever of the Saw movies he had the misfortune to catch while doing his masters degree. He chokes on a laugh. “You have got to be kidding.”

Hannibal does not dignify this with a response, not even to indicate he has heard, walking to part a curtain of plastic sheeting, beyond which… Will balks at the sight of the daemon fastened to the wall, of Sutcliffe’s semi-emaciated body, minus one leg, lying on the bed.

Briefly, he considers running again, but the vaguest suggestion of another confrontation with Louma sends sharp splinters of distress through him. He crouches down and buries his face in her coat, breathing deeply of the faintly static air that comes off her.

“It’s okay, Will. He’s not an innocent.” She noses his ear and offers him some of his own emotions, the ones he has so often rejected.

He reaches out, meeting her halfway, and currents of energy wind up into his nervous system. Ferocity blooms in him, unfurling with thick dark petals, dripping sweet nectar onto sharp thorns. Will takes the strength Louma freely offers, the warmth of her support, and the electric crackle from the violence bunching in his muscles. With it he stands, feeling the expansion of his lungs as he breathes in.

Before him are two men; both have gambled recklessly with his brain, neither are entirely safe from his wrath. Hannibal has secured himself a benefactor in Lou, but that doesn’t exonerate his transgressions.

Hannibal has slipped his hands into nitrile gloves and removed Sutcliffe’s gag. Will watches him with renewed intensity as he wipes down the neurologist's face with a damp cloth. He raises the bed and lifts a cup and straw to the man’s cracked lips; his movements as sure as they were when he was caring for Will, but this extends only into practicality, there is none of the softness that disguises his hesitancy, none of the tenderness that kept Will leaning in. The contrast is striking, and much like the mockery made of Cassie Boyle's body, serves to highlight the love and reverence in the previous crimes.  
  
Of course, all the 'love and reverence' in Hobbs' kills hadn't saved him from Will. 

Sutcliffe’s eyes are unfocused at first, and when he does focus, it is exclusively on Hannibal. “You were gone awhile,” he mumbles. “Hoped you had a mishap.”

“There was a mishap, of sorts, but life’s road would be very dull and predictable without a diversion or two. Allow me to reintroduce you to your former patient - Will Graham.”

Sutcliffe’s eyes look beyond Hannibal and find Will, sharpening as he forgets to breathe, tension in the lines of his body, then he sags. “I don’t suppose I can expect any help from you?”

“Your expectations are none of my concern.” Will growls, and god, the truth of this fact shines down on him like a ray of light puncturing through the house. He acknowledges and then dismisses his empathy for the man, stepping through the plastic sheeting to stand at the end of Sutcliffe’s bed. “What have you taken from him?” He asks, with all the significance of enquiring after a shopping list.

Hannibal purses his lips and begins to lift the dressing and inspect the carefully stitched wounds beneath. “Mostly just parts of parts,” he demonstrates the line of one seam, tracing the air above it with an extended finger. “A few loops of his intestine to case the sausage meat, the bulk of which came from his leg and one kidney. I took some of his liver, but left him enough to get by.”

“Why so judicious?” Will asks, over Sutcliffe’s unhappy hiccup. “You’ve had him three weeks haven’t you?”

“Thereabouts. I’ve been reading up on a procedure I’m keen to try.”

“Oh, no.” Sutcliffe moans.

Will’s heart quickens. He feels a flash of disgust at himself, but if he’s being honest - and he’s trying, he really is - the sound of Sutcliffe’s despair brings a rush that rings in his ears while simultaneously soothing the edges of this strange hunger.

“We’ve already discussed it, haven’t we, Donald? Donald might even consult on the case. Why don’t you enlighten Will on the procedure?” .

Sutcliffe closes his eyes and folds his lips, and Hannibal hums in faint disappointment.

Straightening to attend the IV bags, his voice adopts the measured pace of a lecturer. “Sometimes in children, and rarely in adults, doctors are compelled to remove or disconnect an entire cerebral hemisphere. I wish to perform an anatomic hemispherectomy, removing the frontal, parietal, temporal and occipital lobes of one side of his brain. The compensational capabilities of the brain are quite extraordinary, and near total recovery is possible. That would take some time, of course, but if all goes well he should be conscious again within a week of the operation.”

A swell of nausea presses up against Will’s diaphragm, but he rides it out with grim fascination. “What happens to the daemon?” He asks, tilting his face to acknowledge the albatross with her fastened beak. Her small black eyes hold all the accusation he should be levelling at himself, but it is mercifully quiet in the back of his head.

“Nothing at all, by all accounts. Wherever the seat of the soul lies, or the tether binds, it is not constrained to these grey cornices.” He drums his fingers in a single wave across Sutcliffe’s thinning hair.

“There’s no way I’ll survive.” Sutcliffe interjects, brown eyes opening with twisted triumph. “The procedure’s risky, even on children, and they’re more malleable. You don’t have experience in neurosurgery, you don’t have the equipment, the attending doctors; I won’t survive.”

It seems to be the only hope he has left, but above him, Hannibal smiles at the challenge. “We shall see.”

“What’s her name?” Will gestures to the wall with his chin.

Angling his body, one arm folded behind his back, Hannibal contemplates her. “Callianta. She has a most piercing call, you would have heard it even in the top levels of the house.” Where Will had been asking after groceries, Hannibal might be discussing an oil painting.

“I see.” They’re playing a game, he realises; this cultivated calm with which they discuss these cruelties, flashing teeth behind cultured smiles, while their bodies hum with the visceral thrill of it.

Sadism: an appalling concept. He knows it’s wrong, and he can’t blame this on Louma. Hyenas might be ruthless and cunning, they might salivate over the dead and dying, they might hunger to bring down fresh game, but they aren’t sadists. No, this trait is all human, but she won’t judge him for it, that judgement was all his too.

The light in Hannibal’s eyes is brighter than the one Will would have found over the chess table. This is, after all, what he has wanted all along. Unforgivable transgressions or no, Will finds he wants to play along.

“She’s quite striking,” Will remarks without passion. “The wingspan is remarkable. It must have been frustrating never to be able to fly beyond the periphery of their tether.”

“I should imagine so. I always had the sense Donald felt unfulfilled by his lot in life. Would you consider that an accurate assessment, Donald? Never an accolade that didn’t diminish in worth, once achieved? The ocean always sweeter on the other side, as it were?”

Sutcliffe’s eyes are focused on the middle distance, ignoring the callous sound waves that lap against his eardrums.

Hannibal returns his attention to Will, “I plan to perform the operation tomorrow, I don’t think I’ve the wherewithal today. If you have the inclination, it would be a pleasure to have you in attendance.”

At this point, he’s already complicit. _In for a penny_ … “I could probably manage to pass you things.”

“Excellent,” Hannibal, already glowing, brightens further. “That will increase his chances of survival. Well, Donald, we shall leave you for now. I’ve infused some nutrients into your IV bag, and I’ll bring you a portion of dinner later.”

He raises the gag and Sutcliffe stutters, “W-wait.” Hannibal stalls obligingly. “Leave the lights on? I'm… tired of the dark.”

Will stiffens, empathy leaping back up to smother him in Sutcliffe’s nightmare, humanity rushing back into him. “Excuse me.” He enunciates, taking a step back. He looks down for Louma, and she nods at him in understanding.

Together, they climb from the basement and go to sit on the floor against Hannibal’s kitchen counters, Will feeling heat in his cheeks as he fights to keep his breathing in check. Beneath him, a man and his daemon are burning in their own personal hell, but the floor is cold through the fabric of his slacks. Louma leans in and he wraps his arms around her.

“Is this really what you want?” He breathes, voice shaking.

“Yes, Will.” She soothes. “It’s really what we want.”

He swallows. “So many minds we’ve looked into, what if ours is the worst one of all?”

Their link jangles with a buzz of discontent, then she chuckles ruefully. “I’m going to let your ignorance excuse that remark, because you’ve never really put the effort into finding out who we are. We’re not the worst out there, Will. We have a code, of sorts: mercy for those who deserve it, none for those who have already discarded the rules of their own volition.”

“And Hannibal? He buried the rules under a tree and set fire to the forest. This is beyond anything I’ve ever imagined Lou, he’s been getting away with this for years. A… _dungeon_ , under the kitchen! Eating people… Making _art_ out of them. Is his code good enough for you?”

Lou shifts against him. “We've both admired that art,” she reminds him softly. “His code’s not so different, only his criteria includes the rude. As for the rest... other people may find cannibalism distasteful. But you have to admit, every one of Hannibal’s meals has been delicious. I don’t know if it’s the thrill of breaking a taboo, the satisfaction of a predator instinct, or the rush of a power trip. I don’t really want to analyse it, the way you do. All I know is, when you eat his offerings, it feels… right.”

Tipping his head back against the cupboard door, Will sighs. It does feel right. It also feels wrong. Right in his soul, wrong in his conscience, and here lies poor Will, strung between the two.

Hannibal announces his approach with charitably audible footsteps upon the basement stairs. Appearing in the pantry doorway, his eyes locking on Will with the acumen of heat seeking missiles. “Ah, there you are.”

He adjusts the lay of his trousers and sits on the tiles across from Will, as though he often entertained from this vantage point. Jia stretches out on the floor between them.

“You defy categorisation.” Will states with bland incredulity.

“How comforting. I find it interesting that you buck the classifications and diagnoses that psychiatrists have tried to foist upon you, yet you’re rather keen to brand yourself with a rap sheet of unfavourable labels.”

“There's too much up here, I wouldn’t have the first idea where to start, that’s why it’s so irritating when psychiatrists stumble around forcing their half-baked theories on me.”

“I can imagine. The true goal of psychiatry is to have patients ask themselves questions that lead them to their own epiphanies. I could tell my patients what they need to know, but they wouldn’t be capable of hearing it. They must be led, painstakingly, through all the steps.”

“Only sometimes you just use a short cut or two?”

“In special cases.”

Will’s eyes narrow. “How many other people have you done this to?”

Dropping his eyes to the African wild dog, Hannibal purses his lips indulgently. “Truthfully, you’d be better asking Jevgēņjia. I gather you see this as corruption, but Jevgēņjia sees herself as something of a liberator, don’t you my dear?” He finishes with an affectionate needle.

Jia huffs, “Hardly.” Turning to Will, “But I see beautiful predators, miserable and trapped, born into an artificial savannah with no ecological niche for them. I meet their daemons when their humans come to Hannibal for help, and find myself quite moved to intercede.”

Sliding his hand up to rub at the seam where Louma’s ear meets her forehead, Will can’t help but smile at the dopey expression his attentions elicit. “And that’s how this all started, hmm? My trapped and miserable daemon.”

“You’ve both been trapped and miserable,” Hannibal ventures. “Now you have the opportunity to create something new for yourselves.”

Will nods. Yes, yes, he’s been told; it’s a bright and glorious future. With another sigh, he rests his forehead on Louma’s shoulders. “Did you leave the light on? For Sutcliffe?”

“It was a reasonable request, politely made. Yes.”

“Good.” The freshly laid memories from the basement add to his confusion, and he’s tired. He doesn’t look up as he asks, “Help me to bed?”

Shoes scuff on the floor, and Louma moves out the way so that Hannibal can help Will to his feet.

God damn it, it feels good to have the heat and strength of Hannibal’s body shoring him up. He’s grown used to it. He’d miss it if he pushed it away. In spite of the wounds he carries, and vague notions of retribution, he finds himself clinging to the now explicable musculature of Hannibal’s frame as they mount the stairs.

A far cry from Sutcliffe’s lodgings, the wooden panels and green walls of his room present themselves with their usual promise of tranquillity, but he knows he can’t trust them now. They didn’t tip him off to the deception; their loyalties are to the master of the house. He slides his arm from around Hannibal’s shoulder and digs the pyjamas out from under the pillow.

He’s putting off making a decision on whether or not to invite Hannibal to join him, and that in itself tells him enough. It’s too complicated right now, he’s got too much to think about. Last night was different, they were both suffering, but now, in Hannibal’s home? What they do will set a precedent.

Stripping down to his boxers in front of Hannibal no longer means anything, at any rate. The man had already seen him naked half a dozen times before they ever slept together, and now he’s only swapping out his slacks for a pair of pyjama bottoms. He changes quickly, then climbs under the sheets with a sigh.

Hannibal has been politely occupying himself with checking the medical supplies in Will’s bedside table, and he turns as Will settles.

“Can I bring you a book, or will you rest?”

Good, it seems they’re on the same page. He doesn’t miss Jia looking hungrily at Loumalous, who hasn’t yet jumped up to join him on the bed, and knows the sentiment is echoed.

“I’ll just rest, thanks.”

Bringing his wrist up in a fluid motion to check the time, Hannibal graciously informs him, “A three hour cycle will do you the most good, I’ll time dinner for half seven.”

“Ok. Thanks.”

This has gotten awkward.

“You’re most welcome.” He sounds like a maître d’ – it’s excruciating. 

“Honestly, you two.” Jia scoffs, stalking over to Louma and being met with ferocious enthusiasm, the two daemons exchanging a barrage of licks and nips. Will tenses immediately, Hannibal’s features straining in tandem.

“Jia.” He commands shortly. “Please, this is… not the time.”

“Just a minute.” She rumbles, Lou panting as she lets Jia’s teeth tousle the vulnerable underside of her throat. 

Will’s fists are bunched in the sheets, eyes wide and mouth agape. Lou has turned to butter beneath Jia’s affections, and if Hannibal came for him now, he’d let him have anything. Wants to give him everything.

“Jevgēņjia.” Hannibal snaps.

“Oh alright.” She growls, releasing Lou’s throat and spending an extra moment to lick farewell kisses into her face. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” She promises, then jumps away to stride imperially to the door.

Sharing an exacerbated look with Will, Hannibal nods a farewell and retreats. The closure of the door allows Will to exhale the majority of the building need that had vented through him. The room seems eerily quiet. Louma puts her head on the edge of the bed.

“Can I… come up?”

Guilt plays its bow across the sinews in his chest. He lifts his arm, “Yes, Louma, honey. Come here.”

She jumps onto the bed, and he accepts her, and the swell of joy she brings with her.

There are a million things he should be analysing, processing, deconstructing, filing away, weighing against each other. Instead, he let’s himself just be, and for once, the feelings that rebound off each other and build between them are content and – dare he say - happy?

At some point in the night he wakes, and finds himself looking for Hobbs against the curtains. He’s not there, but then, he never was. It was always Hannibal. It’s a sharp little pain, but compared to the pull on his tether with Lou, it seems like such a small thorn. Betrayal has taken on a whole different meaning since they did that to each other. So too, has forgiveness.

He can’t bring himself to fully forgive Hannibal, or to trust him. He trusts Jia though, the line she treads between deception and truth does appear to have his best interests at heart. The memory of her cold nose, and the shimmering reassurance it transmitted, still leaves him feeling a little breathless.

“You awake too?” He asks the bundle in his arms.

“Mmm hmm.”

“Thinking about Jia?”

“Mmm hmm.” She chuckles and lifts her head. “It’s possible I woke you intentionally.”

At least she’s being honest now, and really, he supposes, that’s all she wants from him too. Will smiles at the devious creature, “It’s possible, is it?”

“It’s possible I’m hoping you’ll listen to my proposition.”

“Sounds more likely than possible. Come on then, let’s hear it.”

In the dark room, the inky pools of Louma’s eyes seem the blackest points. “This room still makes me feel like a patient. I don’t think it needs to be like that. Let’s go to Hannibal’s room. I know we’re welcome there.”

Will scrunches his eyes in mortification. How would he even do that? Would he knock politely and wait for Hannibal to appear at the door, _please sign for one Will Graham_ , or would it be better to just tiptoe in, hoping not to wake him, like a child sneaking into their parent’s room for comfort?

He licks his lips and opens his eyes again. It’s Louma’s plan; what’s her suggestion? “How do you propose we do that?” 

“Mmm. I see what you mean. It might be tricky,” then she drops the sobriety and laughs at him. “Just walk in silly, don’t make a big deal over it. Hannibal will be delighted.”

He breathes out heavily, “You’ve got to cool it a little with Jia. If I’m ever going to untangle this mess in my head I can't… I can’t just… I don’t want him to think I’ve forgiven everything. It’s gonna take time.”

A warm tongue passes across his cheek, leaving a tingling wake of consolation. “I think he knows that too, but I’ll do my best.”

The corridors seem shorter than he remembered, the geometries of the hallways folding to deliver him too quickly to Hannibal’s door. He looks at the forbidding samurai armour guarding the entrance, and would easily procrastinate trying to make out its finer details in near total darkness, but Louma presses her snout against his knee.

“I’m not all that great with door handles, Will.”

_Just walk in_ , she said, _don’t make a big deal out of it_ , she said. He’s never sought out someone in their own bed before, why couldn’t they wait until tomorrow and have a discussion about the sleeping arrangements instead?

Now that idea, when he considers it, is actually worse. He straightens his back, and depresses the handle. The door glides open soundlessly, but Jia is already standing at the end of the bed, waiting in a shaft of moonlight. Lou trots over, jumping up onto the ottoman like she’s done it a hundred times before. They exchange hushed words, then curl up together on the cushion.

Hannibal, bare-chested, has propped himself up on his elbows, his expression difficult to make out on from other side of the ghostly beam from the window. Even if Will had been knocking on bedroom doors his whole life, he doubts he would have known how to approach this particular bed. Will swings the door shut, letting it click softly behind him, and forces his feet to carry him further into the room.

Reaching across, Hannibal pulls back the covers with a flick of his wrist, then lowers himself back onto the pillow. On his side, facing Will with his chin resting on his forearm, he presents the impression of confidentiality rather than intimacy.

That, Will can live with. If nothing else, they are certainly co-conspirators now. He slides between the sheets, pads the cold pillow into the right shape beneath his cheek, and meets Hannibal’s unassailable eyes, careful to keep a small candle of condemnation burning in his mind.

“Thank you for coming. Jevgēņjia has been restless all night.”

“You’ll want to make sure you’re rested for the operation.”

“I can function reasonably well on minimal sleep,” he replies with soft modesty, “but Jia’s anxiety is new to me.”

The painted dog's suffering is a less satisfying notion than Hannibal's. “What’s she worried about?”

“I believe it was a form of separation anxiety, a pining, if you will.”

“And now?”

“She seems completely recovered.” Hannibal murmurs. On this side of the moonlight, and with its faint luminescence, he can make out Hannibal's eyes: thoughtful, warm, and - leaking through the edges, where faint lines trace away into his skin - a little concerned.

Letting his lids slide closed, Will releases a slow lungful of air, and his body sinks more completely into the yielding mattress. Through the shifting of Hannibal's gravity well, he feels the other man relax in kind. Louma is no longer in his arms, and he misses her now, but he can feel her contentment shine through their healing bond. It feels right to her to be here, and while the jury are still conferring in his mind, there is a chance that she may know best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for Gideon’s jailbreak being a tad later than the canon version of events. 
> 
> I hope you're with me for the next chapter; it will be dark - but perhaps not as grim as I might be fearing if I were reading this from the other side!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming to the end now folks, this is the penultimate chapter, thank you for sticking with me this far! Writing when I know (or hope) other people are gonna read it is definitely a different process to just writing for myself.
> 
> As the next chapter is the last, it's gonna be a little longer, and while I will try my absolute hardest to get it out on schedule, if it's a day or two late it'll be because I'm trying to make it as good as I can!

**Chapter 10**

Will wakes at the wrong end of the bed, Hannibal no longer in evidence. Louma sprawls on Jia’s cushion alone, and in his sleep, Will has moved closer to his daemon, seeking her to soothe the memory of the ache in their bond. He pulls his upper body onto the ottoman and buries his face in her shaggy hair. She wriggles in closer with a contended murmur.

His brain feels less bruised today, and when he stands he finds the constant spell of dizziness has lost some of its potency; his sea legs have adjusted to the land again. Feeling bold, he showers in Hannibal’s bathroom, before returning to his own room to dress, eschewing pyjamas for day clothes. Once he's fully dressed and finished buttoning his shirt, he finds he has burned through the majority of the energy he felt so imbued with initially, but having got this far, he and Louma push on through.

The hallways of the house stand ready to offer him support, but he only takes them up on the invitation as he descends the stairs, gravity’s open arms looking a little too easy to fall into. The kitchen is bright with sunlight, each polished surface gleaming with their rays, and music infuses the edges of the room with a more subtle radiance. Jia trots over to greet them, and Hannibal looks up from his preparations with an indistinct smile. 

“Good morning, Will.” The heat of his appreciative gaze sweeps his attire. “You’re looking well.”

Unwittingly doing a sweep of his own, Will absorbs Hannibal in turn. White apron, white shirt, sleeves folded crisply back. Mixed strands of dark and light hair swept neatly back, shining in the morning light. When Will’s dad wore an apron, he looked like Mrs Doubtfire. When Hannibal wears an apron, he looks like a Michelin star chef from the Ritz Paris.

“Morning.” He chews his lip, aware that Jia and Lou are nuzzling behind him. The temptation to do the same against Hannibal’s neck is quite strong.

Hannibal casts a handful of croutons and chopped nuts into the pan with a brief sizzle, and turns to pour Will a coffee. “Your timing is impeccable, breakfast will be ready in five minutes. You may sit at the dining room table if you wish.”

Accepting the coffee, Will chooses instead to sit in the low armchair in the corner and watch as Hannibal finishes cooking. Hannibal continues to behave as though Will has obeyed his instruction, and they don’t properly acknowledge each other again until moving to the dining room, the tension suspended between enthralling and tortuous.

When they sit, Will considers his plate coldly. Small crescent pastries, a fluffy omelette, a salad sprinkled with colourful trimmings. “How much of this is Sutcliffe?”

“Only the empanadas. I refrained from including him in the eggs or salad.”

“What incredible restraint," said with all the bitterness and none of the cavalier banter from Sutcliffe’s bedside.

A slow feline smile sprawls across Hannibal’s lips, a million miles from the prim twitches he’s been getting through the morning. “You have no idea.”

An image abruptly forms in his mind, of Hannibal slamming him down onto the dining room table, plates and forks cascading onto the floor, fighting turning into fucking, and the room brightens around him as his pupils dilate. Will's throat tightens with want, and he digs his fork into the omelette as though the quivering mass could feel pain.

In the corner, the daemons are resting their heads against each other with open mouths and bared teeth, almost frozen in motion, as though one false move might trigger an unstoppable chain reaction. They’re both on their best behaviour; perhaps Hannibal gave Jia a talking to too.

The omelette is delicious, of course, seasoned with coarse salt and balanced with juicy slivers of spring onion. The accompanying salad is crisp and sweetened with pomegranate seeds, crunchy with fried nuts and croutons. His eyes keep sliding back to the miniature empanadas, their pastry edges delicately pressed together around the lobes with little indents, like sutures. The little crescents are the perfect size to pop whole into his mouth - it would be so easy to disappear one into the incomprehensible pocket dimension that is the inside of his body, never to be seen again.

Hannibal cuts neatly into a small parcel of flesh, adding an embellishment of eggs before bringing the fork to his lips. It is this precision that finally breaks Will, and he picks up an empanada with his fingers, closing his mouth around its entirety before biting down with a licentious crunch. The meat melts out of the pastry and across his tongue, rich, with a kick of pepper; a mouthful that stings and soothes at the same time. Hannibal’s fork pauses briefly in its return to the plate; he continues to chew, but the food no longer divides his attention, eyes wholly absorbed by Will.

When Will swallows, Sutcliffe’s meat slides down his throat with the warm glow of whiskey, and burns a trail into him the same way. But isn’t there meant to be something cleansing about alcohol? Purifying even as it poisons you, perhaps the comparison is apt.

"It's good." He offers in simple understatement. To one side, Jevgēņjia licks Lou’s face and rests her head upon the hyena’s forepaws. Lou sighs out happily, and lays her chin on Jia’s neck.

When they take the plates to the kitchen, a faint chirrup from Hannibal’s phone informs them that he has received a voicemail. The general consensus, that this will be Jack, hovers unspoken between them all. Hannibal checks his messages, proving they are unanimously correct, and his eyebrows lift as he reviews the communiqué.

He hangs up and re-pockets his phone with a cogitative pout. “It would appear Abel Gideon is attempting to communicate with the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“Does he know that Sutcliffe is the main suspect?”

“It’s probable, he has Freddie Lounds in tow; a hostage, supposedly. Of greater concern: he has begun to use his former psychiatrists as the raw materials with which to open a dialogue.”

Will’s eyes widen. “Alana-”

“Is safe for now. She has agents posted with her. But, as you might imagine, Jack is still rather keen for your help. I suspect he knows Alana being at risk may tip the scales in his favour. Would you like me to refuse him again?”

Shaking his head, Will scowls at the countertops. “I need to think about it,” but once again, his thoughts are a team of horses determined to pull in different directions, getting him nowhere. “What are you going to do about Gideon reaching out to the Ripper?”

“If I want to continue laying the blame at Sutcliffe’s door, the best course of action would be to ignore him, as the Ripper at least, to preserve the impression that Sutcliffe has fled. I could remove him from the board discretely, or, I could offer to consult for Jack in your stead, dealing with him in this identity.”

Squinting, confused by his choice of words, Will asks, “Hannibal Lecter is your real name, isn’t it?”

“Count Hannibal Lecter, the eighth, yes.”

Will would laugh at the title, but Hannibal has essentially just admitted the name means less than nothing to him. ‘ _This identity_ ’; it’s just his mask, the emotional ties with the name long since cut; he and Jia have moved beyond them, transcended them, are free without them.

Already, Will feels less burdened. He wonders if he will ever feel as light as Hannibal, and how much of his humanity he must cast aside as ballast to reach those heights.

The basement lights are still on when they next descend into Hannibal's subterranean lair. Hannibal pauses at a metal cabinet, “Would you like a set of scrubs?” He's already opening the door to find him a pair.

Will looks down at his plaid shirt, then back up again. “Not particularly.”

“We are going to be performing brain surgery. The equipment is sterile and I’ve done my best to sanitise the space for the operation; we must minimise the chance of infection, if we wish to see the effects of the hemispherectomy.”

“That’s not my curiosity you’re talking about sating. It’s all the same to me; Sutcliffe catching a brain infection seems plenty fitting.” He sniffs and looks away, “And I’m not a fan of playing dress-up.”

Hannibal's inscrutable regard continues for a moment, “Very well. You will, however, need to fold back your sleeves and disinfect yourself up to your elbows, or I will not permit you to assist.”

Will shrugs, “Point me to the sink.”

When Hannibal next reappears, he is coated from head to toe in pale blue; hair secured away under a surgeon’s cap, a mask across his face. Only his hands buck the colour coordination, held aloft in purple nitrile gloves. Will follows him through the plastic sheeting to find Sutcliffe and the area already prepped, the hospital smell of antiseptic a poignant reminder of the neurologist’s crimes.

Sutcliffe's head rests in a metal bracket, securing his immobility with a tight padded band. Haggard brown eyes slide sluggishly past Hannibal, and he takes Will in with a dazed frown. “S’not very hygienic,” his words are lightly slurred.

“He’s conscious?”

“Not for much longer, but we do need a final decision from him.” Hannibal leans down to ask Sutcliffe with almost affectionate gentleness, “Which hemisphere, Donald? You must have given it some thought?”

“Mmm, I have.” He confirms, brows creasing thoughtfully, inhibitions blown to the winds by whatever drug is filtering into him through the IV. “But y'know, it’s pretty terrible, you letting me choose.”

Hannibal lifts his eyes to Will. “What do you think, Will? Is it better or worse to have a choice?”

“Depends on the choice.”

“No,” Hannibal isn’t disagreeing - he’s declaring Will’s opinion is flat out wrong. “The variable lies not in the choice itself, but in the pragmatism of the chooser. Objectively, if the sum of options is greater than one, choice is always advantageous. The problem lies in the degree of conflict, the source of which may lie in fear of making the wrong decision, or the fear of feeling complicity and guilt if the options are equally unappealing. Remove the shame, and the advantage remains.”

“But when you feel someone-” _like me_ “- isn’t pragmatic enough, you’ll take that choice from them. So why offer it to Sutcliffe now? For his 'benefit?'” Scepticism drips from the last words.

Will can’t see Hannibal’s mouth, but his eyes narrow in what Will thinks is appreciation. “I find things are rarely ever binary. I’ll admit to enjoying the cruelty in it, much as I derive satisfaction from knowing that the degree of suffering is self-inflicted. However, that period of his discomfort has now concluded. The drugs in his system distance the emotional implications of his choices, and I am offering him a genuine chance to make a selection based upon logic. It is difficult to know which of his faculties will be functional when he regains consciousness, but by choosing the hemisphere he can decide: would he rather wake with his reasoning capabilities reasonably intact but limited communication, or would he rather a more ambiguous comprehension of his circumstances?”

“I think the second.” Sutcliffe says distantly.

Hannibal hums thoughtfully, a little surprised by this response, likely it would not be his own preference. “Are you sure? You would regain communication skills again in time.”

“I don’t think I want ‘in time’.” Some of the horror is still clawing behind the thick canvas screen of the opiates, and on the wall above them, Callianta’s throat puffs with incommunicable emotion.

“Very well.” Hannibal reaches for the saw on the table, the sight of which drives a bolt of unease through Will.

“If having a choice is so great, why give up yours?" Will asks. "You’ve been wanting to try this for a while now, won’t the choice of hemisphere dictate how much you can find out about his experience?”

Between the strips of blue fabric, Hannibal’s eyes shine in the harsh overhead lights. “It is my choice to give him a choice, and the two outcomes hold equal fascination for me.”

Will studies Hannibal as he turns to adjust the dial on the IV line that will increase the flow of anaesthetic, completely self-assured, lord and master of his dark domain. The impulse shifting quietly in the back of his mind suddenly rears up and bellows, and in the moment of Hannibal's diverted attention, Will snatches a scalpel off the table and plunges it into Sutcliffe’s jugular.

Sutcliffe’s eyes snap wide, shock, and behind that, a warped manifestation of gratitude. Will jerks his wrist, cutting through the neighbouring artery. A dark spray of blood plumes up towards his face, and without even questioning the instinct, he dips his head to let it coat his skin in primal benediction.

A moment ago, this had been about taking something from Hannibal, now, it is about taking something for himself. He climbs onto the operating table, bracing himself on Sutcliffe's shoulders, watching for the moment the neurologist's eyes turn to glass, from animate to inanimate. The pulsing fountain diminishes with his blood pressure, until the heart slows, stops. A moment later, the eyes lose their vitality, and above them, Callianta bursts into a cloud of Dust.

It drifts around them, through them really, as Will lifts his head to witness Hannibal’s reaction. Hannibal is pulling down the surgeon’s mask, revealing fractionally parted lips, eyes blazing with a firestorm of mixed emotions.

Will licks his lips, filling his mouth with the taste of Sutcliffe’s iron. He climbs off the operating table. “Louma,” he commands, but he can’t take his eyes from Hannibal – he’s not entirely sure it’s safe to do so. “Up.”

She doesn’t need further encouragement, and the table shakes as her weight lands atop it. Hannibal turns to observe her, freeing Will to watch her too. Her claws leave pointed impressions in the dark leather as she adjusts her position and snuffles up the body. Will feels warm with her pride, with his pride for her, with the righteous win of the kill, stolen from another predator. Two retributions in one.

He breathes in deeply, the smell of blood thick in his nose, pulling his skin strangely as it dries across his face. Louma’s open jaws descend with a chilling snarl, and Will smiles as she begins to eat, satisfying a hunger she has never been allowed to indulge.

After watching mutely for a minute or so, Hannibal’s livid eyes return to Will, skirting across his stained features before cutting up to meet his gaze. “Of course, how thoughtless of me, I should have gifted him to you from the start." The formality of his words does little to disguise the ongoing altercation between his indignation and admiration. He unfastens the head brace, as though releasing Sutcliffe into Louma’s possession.

Will starts laughing, a low-level hysteria, and turns, dripping blood, to walk towards the basement stairs. Hannibal is before him in a flash of teal, blocking his retreat. “Come, Will, there is a shower this way.”

Still laughing, Will lets Hannibal lead him deeper into the basement; deeper into his underworld.

Together, Louma and Jia pull the body off the table and drag it down the corridor, settling down outside the wet room to share the feast.

The shower is considerably less glamorous than the other two Will has seen in this house, but it is spacious, and the water pressure promises to be the hammering cascade he needs right now. He lets Hannibal undress him before dragging him, fully clothed, into the spray with him.

He doesn’t know whether he wants to drown Hannibal or use him as scaffolding, but in the end he doesn’t have to decide, because Hannibal has lost his nitrile gloves and his fingers slide into Will’s hair to grip his skull fiercely and pull him into a kiss that is one swallow away from consumption. Will folds against him, contact with another living human suddenly unutterably important.

Wet scrubs slap to the floor as Will rips them from Hannibal’s body, before driving him back against the wall with untempered force. Air rushes out of Hannibal’s lungs as he impacts the wall, head bouncing off the tiles, and his lips curl back in a silent snarl. The conflict of Hannibal's emotions transmit in the burning chill of arctic air from his eyes. He twists Will around a strategically positioned ankle, reversing their positions.

The smack of Will’s bare skin against the tiles echoes in the enclosed space, loud despite the water, or perhaps it’s only loud to Will, the sound travelling through his bones as much as the air around them. Hannibal holds him in place with a forearm across his neck, leaning into him, feet planted and immovable despite the running water. There’s a small thrill of fear at knowing Hannibal could kill him right now. He is stronger, not necessarily faster, but Will has already let himself be pinned. Mostly, though, this seems a natural continuation to the high of righteous violence.

“What do you want to do to me?” Will goads, when his initial struggles prove useless. “‘ _In the spirit of honesty,’_ why don’t you tell me _exactly_ what you want to do to me right now?” If Hannibal is going to kill him – and let’s face it, Jia might not be able to stop him – he could at least be honest about it.

Black pupils swallow Hannibal’s irises, and they scan across his face in little flickers of movement. “ _So_ many things.” He murmurs softly, essays writing themselves between Hannibal’s three little words as he presses harder on Will’s oesophagus.

“Tell me.” He croaks through the bruising force.

Millimetres at a time, Hannibal brings his face closer to Will’s, hair flattened to his head, eyes unblinking in the spray from above. At the last second he closes them to kiss Will softly, then catches his lip in his teeth and punctures a sharp shard of pain through the tissue.

“I want to lick the skin from your bones,” he growls, working his teeth up to the lobe of Will’s ear, “I want to break you apart and reform you exactly as you are. I want to make you my Prometheus, and pluck your liver from you every day anew. I want to be the wind that sculpts you, knowing all the time it’s the geology of your bedrock that dictates your shape.” Will feels Hannibal's teeth against his cheekbones, and briefly wonders if he might try to eat his eye. “I want to cut you into pieces so small that I can learn every micron of you under a microscope. Explore every cell, unfold every protein.”

He switches to Will’s other ear, his voice losing some of its growl, something more mournful now, more lost, but still just on the verge of murderous. “I want to deify you, put you on a pedestal where no one else can touch you. I want to tear a thousand cries of pleasure from you, in a thousand different ways. I want to show you the whole world, rip it from its hangings and lay it at your feet. You asked what I would feed you of myself, and the answer is anything, everything; I would feed you from my own flesh if you willed it. And that is _incomprehensible_ to me.”

Hannibal pulls his face back, glaring at Will as though _he_ were the puppeteer of clandestine machinations. The spray deflects off the side of his head, catching Will’s eyes. He blinks against it, and against the onslaught of impressions. Hannibal shifts slightly to spare him the discomfort of the water, the pressure of his forearm still tight across his throat.

Will would be struggling to breathe from the words alone. If he had ever worried that Jia was the only one with strong emotion for him, that concern has been shredded. That doesn't stop contempt lacing his next strike. “Maybe, you should have spent more time trying to get your own thoughts in order,” Will sputters through his compressed larynx, “before getting all up in other people’s heads.”

With a growl, Hannibal pushes away from him roughly. Will coughs, bringing up a hand; the cartilage feels clunky beneath his palm.

Stepping out of arm's reach, Hannibal arches his neck and pushes back his shoulders, flexing the tension from his muscles. When the stretch falls from his frame, so too do all the outward signs of aggression. His limbs are loose and graceful again, and a rueful smile tips the edges of his lips. 

He picks up a bottle of shampoo and squeezes a small measure into his hand. He looks at Will briefly, possibly considering offering to wash his hair, then decides against it. Instead he raises both arms to massage the shampoo into his own hair, and Will is rather stunned by the picture he makes. He would look fitting on Hellenistic pottery. The skin on his torso is pulled taut to more closely delineate his muscles, the water streams off him, reflecting light and making his whole body gleam.

It has not escaped Will’s notice that they are both hard, and he would rather not contemplate at what point exactly that had happened. Neither of them have acknowledged the condition, and Will doesn’t plan to. Nor does he plan to accede defeat by leaving the shower. He snatches the shampoo bottle off the shelf and starts to wash his own hair, scrubbing roughly at his roots, punishing them for his frustration.

Half a minute of witnessing Will abuse his curls appears to be Hannibal’s limit, and unobtrusive hands land over his fingers to command stillness. Will slides his hands free, skin prickling, and lets Hannibal take up a leisurely caress of his scalp. His fingertips skim across his skull with the perfect amount of pressure, and it’s a relief to have a gentle touch from him again.

Ten spirals work their way around his cranium, and the ten digits that propel them are enemy combatants, but it becomes difficult to remember why he should hold onto this anger. Is it something he has to carry around constantly, or can he rest from time to time? Does he have to be Hannibal’s Prometheus _and_ his own Atlas?

The anger is snared to him - even if he sets it down for a moment, it’s not going anywhere. He lets his body loosen, and Hannibal starts to massage his neck and shoulders, pausing briefly to add soap into the lather.

He traverses Will’s muscles with the expertise of a trained mountaineer, knowing every surface of the landscape, every handhold to exploit. Digging in, dragging sliding pressure down his muscles as he moves down his back. It feels incredible, even if it is slightly counterproductive; for all the loosening of his back, his stomach muscles are having to fight to keep him stable against the force of Hannibal’s hands. 

Indefinite minutes pass, and his legs set up a fine tremble with the effort of standing. Hannibal’s hands move across his ribs, sliding the skin along the furrows between his bones, moving to massage his chest. Will leans back against him, letting him take more of his weight, resting his head back against one shoulder. The slow compressions sweeping through his pectorals and obliques press him tighter against Hannibal’s chest, and desire spikes through him at the feel of Hannibal’s skin against him, of strong arms around him. They’re both being very careful not to move their hips, but the erection now trapped against his left cheek is impossible to miss.

The spray strikes his upturned lips, each liquid pellet igniting a spark of stimulation.

“Touch me,” he whispers, and Hannibal inhales deeply behind him, his chest expanding against Will’s back.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s not forgiveness,” Will says against the water.

“Of course,” Hannibal murmurs, sounding vaguely offended.

“Then, for the love of God, put your hands on me.”

One broad hand slides lower, the other arm tightening around his chest, and Will milks his lip for more blood, Hannibal trying to sate a similar craving sucking at his shoulder.

“Use your teeth,” Will instructs, and grateful canines sink into his flesh at the same moment Hannibal’s fingers close around his shaft. Will gasps, the shower invading his mouth as pain jolts up his neck, nearly eclipsed by the shockwave of pleasure that scorches up through his core.

“Fuck,” Will breathes out, as Hannibal tightens his hold and slides consecutive surges of devastating heat through him, “you are so fucking confusing.”

Will feels the chuckles against his back, teeth prying loose from his shoulder to mutter, “My sentiments exactly.”

Hannibal is forced to support more and more of Will’s weight as his bones lose their integrity. The only solid thing about him right now must be his cock, and when he looks down, it seems obscenely taut beneath the passes of Hannibal’s fist. But looking down makes it harder for Hannibal to hold him up, so he rests his head back again, burying his face in the smooth skin of the doctor’s neck while his body sings in a rising crescendo.

The only sensation Hannibal seems to be chasing is against his jaw, which rubs softly against the edge of Will’s stubble, his head now sheltering him from the spray again. Their hips remain motionless, Will out of obstinacy, Hannibal presumably because it has not been agreed upon. Good, he likes the idea of the man submitting, just like he enjoys being completely encased in him like this, just as he finds a part of himself craving the overturned emotions that had pinned him to the wall.

“What do you see, Will, when you close your eyes?” The rich baritone vibrates against Will’s face as it travels up Hannibal's throat.

For once, perhaps, there had been a dearth of images, just kaleidoscopic lights as he occupied only this moment: clothed in Hannibal’s skin, mouth pressed over the steady thump of his carotid artery, shunting carriages of maddening build colliding up and down his body. But now the suggestion is in his mind to picture something, it’s not imagination that provides it, but memory.

A dark car lot; the ambulance a bright hole in the night, spilling light and panic out of its open doors. Then Hannibal ascending, radiating the serenity of divinity, sliding his hand into living tissue, as though he had no need for blades or saws to cut through skin, but could just sink his hands into the humid bellows of mortal flesh. All Will could think was that he had been born for it, to traverse the boundaries of the material world.

He had watched Hannibal save the man’s life, and thought him the antithesis of Will; soaked to the wrists in blood, but virtuous where Will was profane. Now he knows different, and now the hand that was lost in the man’s torso is wrapped around his cock and pumping him towards oblivion, as they wash Will of his kill.

However much of this he might have been able to communicate in answer is lost in a groan against Hannibal’s racing pulse, the relentless booms of vivid pleasure developing an urgent edge, and suddenly he is skating along the brink, the fall an inevitability that he teeters on for stretching seconds of breathless promise. He snaps his hips forward, incapable of holding still a moment longer, and the surge of ecstasy follows through, pounding through him with thundering hoof beats, trampling the rest of the universe into abeyance.

He cries out, the sound muffled in Hannibal’s neck, as though there’s no air out there, nothing to breathe, nothing but Hannibal beyond the walls of his body.

It shouldn’t be comforting. But God, it is.

The thick line of swollen flesh pressed against his ass shouldn't be comforting either, and perhaps that's not the right word for it - satisfying then. When his legs relearn the proper techniques for holding him upright, he peels himself away from Hannibal's heaving body and staggers away for space. The anger is right there waiting for him still, and his returning thoughts are a tumble of relief, shame, and belligerence. The latter wins, and he reaches for the soap, giving himself another cursory scrub, as though nothing of consequence had transpired. 

Hannibal stands motionless in the middle of the shower, apparently focused on controlling his breathing. From the corner of his vision, Will can see his eyes are closed, and his throat bobs every so often, as though attempting to swallow the arousal still coursing through his blood stream. Will chances a glance down to see Hannibal is still rock hard, the shiny skin of his head a dark desirous red. It would be a lie to say he isn't tempted to taste him, to kneel and explore the ridges with his tongue, to drag wet friction up under the shaft and make Hannibal shudder, but it's hardly what the man deserves.

As he watches, Hannibal slowly masters himself, the rigid beam slowly flagging. Will grits his teeth, it's too easy for him; everything is always too easy for him. So Will grips Hannibal's hips to steady himself, and slowly gets to his knees. Eyes flying open in surprise, Hannibal catches Will's intent, lips flattening in consternation as his erection surges up again. 

Taking a firm hold of the base of Hannibal's shaft, Will mouths at the cockhead, letting his lips brush over the bulb with only the faintest tease of pressure. His other hand is still on Hannibal's hip, and he can feel the man begin to tremble. Will casts his eyes up, to take in the pinched line of confusion marring his composure, teeth clenched tightly enough to bunch the jaw muscles. 

Will has never had his lips on a man's phallus before, and he thought it would be... he doesn't know. He thought it would be unpleasant somehow, but the skin is unbelievably soft over the stiff crown, heat radiating from the responsive flesh. He unfurls his tongue to taste, curling it to lave around the underside of the bulb, precome welling up from the tip, and Hannibal chokes on Will's name.

Maintaining eye contact, Will opens his jaws wider, and pushes forward to envelop the head and half of Hannibal's length, cradling the weight of him gently on his tongue. His mouth is filling with saliva, and Will is honestly surprised to discover how turned on he is by this, though it's too soon for another physiological response - thank god. He tightens the seal of his lips, hollows his cheeks, and draws back, punching a deep guttural groan from the man above him. Good, one more should do it; he sinks does a little further the second time, sucking a little harder, fluttering the flat of his tongue, and then he pulls all the way off and stands up. 

From the look on his face, knowing this was coming does little to abate the dismay, and Hannibal's eyes slide to Will's saliva-slick lips before closing to fight for control. Once again, Hannibal's cock is straining with frustrated desire. Will hums approvingly and leans in to whisper against his ear, "That's right, Hannibal," he makes a caress of the man's name, "no touching yourself." Will reaches down and rubs the glans lightly under his thumb; Hannibal almost sagging before he catches himself. "You can do that, can't you?" 

Hannibal doesn't answer, except to open his eyes, pained and needy but still resolutely defiant. He's beautiful like that, and Will smiles at him without humour. "'Atta boy." 

He steps out of the shower, forgoing the towels, and marches from the wet room, knowing Hannibal will obey. 

Sutcliffe's half devoured body lies forgotten in the corridor, Louma standing over the painted dog who is lying in a submissive daze at her feet. "Come on, baby," he murmurs. Lou looks between Will and Jia, gives Jevgēņjia a consolatory nip, then trots after Will as he makes his way back up from the basement. 

He emerges into the kitchen, naked and dripping, feeling he has been born again; as what exactly is still unclear - but it has sharp teeth and a smile.

That night, Will lies down on the very furthest edge of the bed. Hannibal has been tolerating the invisible force-fields erected between them throughout the afternoon, but this appears to be one churlish straw too many. Will hears him part his lips and tenses before the first syllable reaches his ears.

“Behavioural patterns are difficult to break,” Hannibal observes mildly. “You are habituated to cutting yourself off from the things you want. You kept Louma at arm’s length for decades, and now that you have embraced her, you seek a new foil to test your resistance against. You must let those muscles atrophy, Will. They only hinder you.”

Words must have been building in him throughout their silent evening, because now there’s a mad dash for his mouth. “Look, what happened today – it changes nothing, okay? I’m still confused, I’m still angry. I’m only in your bed right now because of our daemons, and I’m seriously considering the floor, so I’d keep your 'penetrating observations' to yourself if I were you. Nothing is forgiven.” 

Had he hoped Hannibal would listen? The dip of the mattress behind him as Hannibal sidles closer doesn’t surprise him.

“There’s a good chance you may never forgive me,” a strangely reassuring statement, “it’s not something you should feel rushed to do.”

Will agrees, so why is Hannibal pushing?

“However, with our daemons as attached as they are, the punishment you have chosen for me requires you to restrain yourself in equal measure. You took a positive step earlier; today should have shown you that you need not refuse yourself while imposing restrictions upon me. If you require comfort, pleasure, or an outlet for your rage, I will give it. You are quite welcome to keep denying me, but I should like you to learn not to deny yourself.”

The idea holds a curious amount of appeal, and assuages some of the guilt he has been carrying for his behaviour in the shower. If anyone else were to make such an offer, there would be too much pity generated to even consider it; but from close quarters, in a low murmur, in that rich accent, it sounds nothing less than completely decadent. 

His voice is more affected than he wants it to be, “Hardly a selfless offer though, is it?”

“I’m sure there would be a bitter-sweet comfort in it for me, but you still miss my point. I would like you to learn to take action based on your own wants and wishes, without always pausing to consider how they affect the people around you.”

“You think that’s a good idea, teaching me how to be selfish?”

“Before today, I don’t believe you have ever put your own wishes ahead of anyone else’s. This is a good opportunity for you to practice.”

“So, you’re saying I should be nice to you when I want, and cruel to you when I want, take what I want, and you’ll just put up with it?”

“I cannot say how I will react to any of your choices – but I should like you to stop censuring yourself for my benefit.”

Is he denying himself for Hannibal’s ‘benefit’? Sharing in Hannibal’s sentence to spare him the trouble of having to deal with his mercurial feelings? Well fuck that.

“You know what? You’re right.” Will scoots back until he meets Hannibal’s body, and the doctor’s arm wastes no time in snaking around his chest. “Happy? Now shut up and go to sleep.”

Hannibal snuggles closer, and seems perfectly content. Will feels a little tricked, but when he casts his attention inwards, there’s no doubt that this is better, so he takes Hannibal’s advice and discounts the other man’s emotions entirely. He enjoys the proximity, the possessive constriction, and Louma’s quiet thrum of approval through their bond.

But on the edge of sleep, where the bolts that hold the chains of reason are loosened, words float up from memory; _'I would feed you from my own flesh if you willed it. And this is incomprehensible_ _to me'._ He rests his arm over Hannibal’s, and holds him tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if you were rooting for an actual hemispherectomy. I thought the threat of it was effective as psychological torture, but I had no real desire to describe the procedure or Sutcliffe struggling through a recovery. That said, I did consider Hannibal and Jia gifting the half-a-brain to Louma, which would have gone something like this:
> 
> ...Half a cerebellum in a polished silver dish, the pink-grey flesh quivering and trembling as the last dying neutrons spasm desperately. Tremors in Lou too, as she lowers her head, stretching her jaws and stretching the moment...
> 
>   
> When I mentioned Hellenistic pottery, there are a few kinds, but I meant this sort of thing:  
> 
> 
> One more chapter to go folks...


End file.
